Missing In Action
by volley
Summary: A shuttlepod vanishes with Reed on board.
1. Chapter 1

This is a multi-chapter adventure set before season three. I hope you will enjoy reading it and will leave a few comments.

Grateful thanks to my beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice.

§ 1 §

"Mayday! Come in, Enterp…"

Smoke. Choking, burning, thick.

Fire.

_Better than drowning? Will find out soon. _"Enterprise, come in!"

Heat, rising.

_Increase the bloody descent vector, get the damn thing down on solid ground… Too fast! Well, Lieutenant, which will it be, death on impact, by choking or consumed by fire?_

Fire. Hot, crackling, closer.

_Forget it! Can't lift your hands off the controls…_

Fire, crackling. A camp, a starry night. Long ago. England.

_Never to… Don't go there! _

Open fields… a wood in the distance… low mountains on one side… no settlements…

_Could be worse. At least you won't kill anyone - beside yourself. _

Fire. Scorching. Searing pain.

_Don't let go! Too fast, too bleeding fast! _

Touchdown. Hard. Sliding.

_Stop, dammit! STOP!_

Fire. Scalding. Singeing.

_Where is that ocean for drowning?_

Smoke.

_Open the hatch... _

Shadows, dancing.

_Don't collapse…not yet... not… _

Soft. Cool. Alien blue grass.

_Bluegrass… ridiculous Yankee music. Trip…_

_Enterprise… _

* * *

"What do you mean it _disappeared_?"

As Archer slowly swivelled to the left he carefully controlled his tone to keep it level with that of T'Pol's composed announcement, only slipping on the last word. But he was human after all, and could not quite project his First Officer's perceived serenity; he never managed to, when members of his crew may be in serious trouble. _Just remember Vulcans keep their emotions well hidden_, he reminded himself, quelling his annoyance as she provided the usual calm and precise answer to his question.

"The shuttle is no longer in visual range, nor is it being detected by sensors."

The lovely lips said the words as if the subject were a worthless asteroid, instead of a manned vessel. Archer's eyes tracked from them to the gaze above, and there, finally, he saw the trace of disquiet that reassured him that even Vulcans had a heart of flesh.

"Hoshi?" he prompted, knowing that's all he needed to say to the sensitive linguist.

Seconds ticked by as the Communication Officer tried to contact the pod.

"Nothing, Sir."

By contrast, Hoshi's voice was thickly coated with tension.

Archer pursed his lips. "Full stop, Travis."

"Aye, Sir." The helmsman's hands flew over the controls, and suddenly there was silence.

Rising from his chair, the Captain went up to the science station. "Any idea what happened?"

Before T'Pol could answer, a well-known voice rang out.

"Tucker to the Bridge. What's goin' on, Capt'n? Why have we pulled to the curb?"

Archer reached out and pressed the comm. link on T'Pol's station. "Shuttlepod Two has disappeared," he said. Without thinking, he had repeated the preposterous words, and Trip's response was an outraged and predictable 'what-do-you-mean-disappeared' that echoed his own previous one.

"I don't know, Trip. We're working on it. Archer out."

Archer closed the link, not minding being a bit abrupt. Trip would have to accept it; right now his focus was on their Science Officer, whom he silently questioned with narrowed eyes.

"Sensors did not show any deflagration, nor are they registering a debris field," T'Pol said in her calm, professional tone. "It is logical to think the vessel is still intact, only, for some reason, impossible to detect."

As she added that, her voice gradually acquired rounder edges, and Archer knew it wasn't only in deference to her human colleagues' concern over the man inside that vanished pod. There was empathy in it. Two years in close contact with a human crew had changed this Vulcan.

The turbo lift door opened and Trip Tucker marched out. "Disappeared how?" he asked without preamble, to no one and everyone.

Archer turned to him. He had long been Trip's best friend, but recently he had wondered more than once if he wasn't now sharing that title with one Malcolm Reed. Nearly freezing to death together on Shuttlepod One had had that unexpected coda for Trip and Malcolm. Their friendship was as solid as it was implausible, given how different the two officers were; but maybe that was what made it so special.

"It's not on sensors," Archer simply replied. "We cannot see it – visually or otherwise."

Trip looked from him to T'Pol, as if expecting a better explanation. "Could it have become cloaked, somehow?" he went on to ask when none came.

"It is a possibility," T'Pol said, cocking her head. "I will need time to analyse the problem," she added, to the Captain.

Archer acknowledged with a nod. "Keep hailing him, Hoshi," he instructed.

* * *

Three heart beats, one intake of breath.

His pulse filled his senses. Malcolm could feel it very clearly: thumping at the base of his throat, drumming in his ears, throbbing under the limp arm across his chest. It was a powerful reminder that all was not well, and he wished he could shut it out. But that seemed impossible; so, deciding to go with the flow instead of against it, he focused on it, hoping it would at least help him ignore the biting pain in his left arm and shoulder; in his side too.

He should open his eyes. Take stock of his situation. Because his mind might be in cottonwool but he knew that he wasn't on Enterprise - he couldn't tell how he knew, but he did. How difficult could it be to crack his eyes open? Good gracious, right now it seemed to require energy he didn't feel he had -- or was it courage? He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to look and see in just how much trouble he had landed himself.

Landed. Landing. Fire.

A moan escaped him as the memory of his rough landing in a shuttlepod on fire assaulted his sluggish brain. He shifted ever so slightly on his back, and pain sank in its ruthless teeth. Clenching his jaw against it, he choked back a cry, but it went on echoing all the same in his mind, nightmarish, distorted. He felt himself slipping away, into nothingness, spiralling down… but the thought that this might be it, that its embrace might be the final one, was far too frightening.

Fight it, fight it... Focus: two intakes of breath every three heart beats now - his breathing had picked up speed. He pictured blips and spikes on Phlox's medical monitor. How long before the line became flat? Because he really was too weak to fight. He felt like someone hanging over the edge of a cliff, whose grip is slipping. Letting go didn't sound like such a bad idea after all.

A rustling sound, something cool on his forehead, soft words he could not understand.

He cracked his eyes open. A figure was bent over him.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

T'Pol's gaze shifted from Archer to Tucker and back as she stood with her hands latched behind her back, "There is something unusual in the region of space where the shuttlepod disappeared."

"Unusual?" Archer and Trip echoed her simultaneously.

Archer got up from his desk chair and took a couple of measured steps towards his SIC. She kept as still as a statue as he approached and only said, "Scanner readings seem to bounce back."

"Bounce back?" Trip repeated again, a thoughtful frown darkening his face.

There was a puzzled silence.

Archer narrowed his eyes in thought. "And what do you make of it?"

"I haven't sufficient data yet to answer that question."

Trip huffed, and Archer shot him a warning look. "Not even to make an educated guess?" he pressed.

Still T'Pol didn't move; only raised a delicate eyebrow. "Commander Tucker suggested before that Shuttlepod Two may have become cloaked: I believe, rather, that there may be some kind of cloaking field in the region of space where it disappeared. When the pod wandered into it, it vanished."

"Then why hasn't Malcolm come out again?" Trip commented worriedly. "He must realise something is wrong, that communication with Enterprise has been cut off."

"Perhaps the cloaking field acts as a barrier," Archer mulled grimly. "He might not be able to cross it."

"Captain, this is, however, still only a speculation," T'Pol reminded him softly. "I will need more time to investigate it."

"Keep at it."

As T'Pol nodded and left the ready room, Trip passed a nervous hand through his hair. "I should have gone with him…" he muttered. "Ya oughtta have let me, Capt'n."

Archer winced. "There was no reason, Trip. Malcolm was perfectly capable of testing the upgrades on his own. You know that."

"I'm the Chief Engineer, for heaven's sake," Trip insisted. "Any system upgrades, even to the pods' weapons, should be tested under my supervision."

"And I would have two officers missing, instead of one."

"We don't know that," Trip snapped back.

The voice had that stubborn overtone that Archer knew so well. He could have taken the comment as a challenge to his good judgement and authority, but he knew it hadn't been meant like that. It was the worry talking. He shot Trip a sympathetic look and took to pacing his ready room, wondering not for the first time – as he ducked his head under the bulkheads – on what basis the ship's designers had decided captains would not exceed a certain height.

"We'll get him back," he said with determination, reaching the end of the small room and turning.

Trip bit his lip and put his hands on his hips. "We don't know that either."

Archer frowned, surprised at the uncharacteristic pessimism. "That's not like you, Trip," he said, studying the lines of concern on the other man's face. A smirk was his answer. But then Trip's expression changed and he muttered, "Yeah, you're right. I'd better go back to Engineering." With a nod, he left.

Archer watched the door close behind him. Yes, they'd get Malcolm back. He would try his darndest to bring back _any_ missing man or woman of his crew. But he felt he owed it especially to Reed. His quiet Armoury Officer had never hesitated to put his life on the line for this ship, this crew; and he'd be damned if he wouldn't give his all to bring him back.

* * *

Malcolm blinked, trying to figure out, in his confused state, if the figure bent over him was reality or dream. Then the person tried to move his left arm, and any doubt was instantly dispelled. He jerked away with a cry, but movement sent more waves of pain through his body. He froze, muscles tense, eyes scrunched closed and breath coming in hitching grunts.

The soothing voice began its litany again. There was the sound of water dripping; then a cool compress was touched to his forehead, his temples, down his face and neck.

Cracking his eyes open, Malcolm squinted, his blurred eyesight taking a few seconds to focus. A woman. She turned to dip the cloth in water again - Malcolm could hear the dripping sound as she wrung the excess out of it. When she turned back to him, their eyes met and she stopped. They looked at each other in a silence broken only by his uneven breathing.

She was the only thing he could perceive outside of pain, and his senses clung to her in a desperate attempt to escape the latter. She had unsophisticated features but the plain beauty of something genuine. Her tan face was all soft curves: her jaw line, her eyebrows, her lips; her nose was straight but not important, and her eyes – of a colour that in the dim light escaped definition – were deeply expressive. Intricate designs adorned her forehead. The strangest hair he had ever seen framed her face: darker, almost black strands mixed with much lighter ones; they were combed back and gathered on the top of her head, kept neatly in place in some unobtrusive way.

"Where… am I?" Malcolm stammered. He darted a look around, before returning his gaze to the woman. He was lying on a mat of some sort, in a sparsely furnished room.

The woman shook her head slightly, and a frown appeared on her brow. Of course, they would not understand each other.

There was a pungent smell in the air, and Malcolm feared he knew where it came from. He raised his head and checked himself over: the uniform, on his left arm and shoulder, was a mess of burnt and bloodied material, and he had to swallow hard against the sudden bout of nausea the sight caused.

Any residual strength seeped out of him, and his head fell back; closing his eyes, he felt his grip on reality seriously threatened. But the woman spoke again, in soft, comforting tones, capturing his focus. Her voice had a warm pitch. Malcolm let the unintelligible words slide over his groping mind and lull him, and was grateful for the cool cloth, which came once more to dab his face and neck.

Enterprise. He must contact Enterprise.

The thought slowly emerged from the fog of his brain like a beacon, and like a beacon it could not be ignored. He forced his eyes open again. "My ship…" he mumbled.

The woman's eyes grew concerned and she said something that sounded like a question.

His communicator; where was his… He managed to lift his head again. His right hand went automatically for the left arm pocket, and he stopped barely short of touching that mangled mess. Deflating like a punctured tyre, he collapsed back.

Blackness was closing in this time, and not even the noise of someone coming in and the sound of this other person's deeper voice could save him from plunging into it.

* * *

It was close to twelve hours since Shuttlepod Two had disappeared, and they still had no clue as to what had happened to it.

Enterprise was hanging motionless in space. It was late at night and Trip was leaning against the bulkhead near the porthole in his room, gazing at the view of the mysterious universe, wishing he could draw the darkness open like a curtain to reveal its enigmas. He felt deeply unsettled, and not only because of his friend's disappearance: there was no familiar sight of stars streaming past, no hum from the warp engines - it all made for a foreboding atmosphere. Nothing felt right.

Casting a wistful look at his bunk, Trip knew there and then that there was no way he could fall asleep. It wasn't only a matter of worrying: frustration about not being able to do anyhing to unravel the puzzle made him fidgety. T'Pol had very tactfully let him know that for the moment there was nothing she thought he could do to help her. Well, no point staying cooped up in his room. Heaving a determined breath, Trip pushed off the wall and left his quarters.

When he entered the bridge T'Pol was still at her station, deeply concentrated on her instruments, and barely acknowledged his arrival. Hoshi and Travis had left – knowing them, probably under Archer's order: relief crewmen sat at their posts. Glancing at tactical, Trip saw it was manned by Müller. The man was a pro and would show nothing but a stout front – well, what else was one to expect from Malcolm's SIC? Yet, ironically, it was only the tense set of his jaw which betrayed a certain brittleness in him.

"Everythin' ok, Ensign?" Trip asked in a careful voice, approaching.

Müller's 'Aye, Sir' was sharp and unfaltering, but his green eyes told him differently, and Trip gave the man a supportive pat on the shoulder.

Malcolm's men would follow their commanding officer into fire. Well, why not? Malcolm would undoubtedly be the one leading them: his friend may not make any allowances with his men but neither did he with himself, and that had earned him the respect of his people. And even if in the Armoury one did not breathe an air of cheerful camaraderie, like in Engineering, somehow the Lieutenant had been able to find the right balance between discipline and friendship.

Müller's eyes were circled, and Trip realised the man had been sitting at the station since God-knew-when. "Why don't you get some rest, Bernhard," he told him. The Ensign looked hesitant, so he added, "I'll page you if there is any news."

"Thank you, Sir."

After watching Malcolm's SIC disappear inside the turbo-lift, Trip rubbed a hand over his jaw, studying the closed door of the ready room. Archer was still in there, and Trip wished he would come out: right now he needed the company of a friend, but he wasn't sure Archer would welcome his visit.

With a last look across the Bridge to the Science station, where T'Pol was still deeply absorbed in calculations, Trip reluctantly sat down at tactical.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

Malcolm definitely felt strange. Not bad-strange, just strange; floating, not quite there. He supposed he ought to feel a lot worse, all things considered. He was lying on his right side and could feel no pain, only a prickly tingling in his injured arm and shoulder, and in his left side, where – the stinging suggested – he had suffered burns too.

He blinked his eyes open, and the woman from before appeared in his direct line of sight. She was busy doing something on a counter, on the other side of the room. While she had her back to him, he silently studied her. She was medium height and, under her middle-length skirt and long-sleeve top, had what looked like a rounded body. She was not large or heavy, just… gracefully substantial – certainly not skinny. Her unusual hair cascaded in soft curls from the top of her head over her shoulders, a salt and pepper mix that waved with the movements of her upper body as she went about her chore.

Malcolm stared at her for a long moment; then shifted his gaze around. The room was Spartan: his mat along a wall, under some shelves; two arm-chairs with a low table, which seemed to have been moved aside to accommodate him; the counter where the woman was working, with cabinets on top; a dining set. A curtained window let some light in; a door led, presumably, to another part of the house. Quite amazing. The furniture designs were a bit strange, baroquely intricate, but it might have been an apartment on Earth.

Time to check something else…

Bracing himself, Malcolm shifted his gaze to his injuries. He was bare-chested and a thick layer of something that reminded him of cottage cheese covered his burnt flesh. Well, better that than Phlox's slimy creatures. Perhaps he could get the Denobulan to learn a few new tricks.

His uniform had been removed. He worried for a moment about what else might have been taken off him while he was unconscious, but he didn't have the courage or the energy to shift his injured arm and lift the sheet that covered his body from the waist down, so he dismissed his concern, blessing the fact he had been quite out of it when they had peeled the burnt material away.

_They_… He thought he could remember a man's voice, before losing consciousness.

The woman suddenly turned, a cup in her hand, and met his eye. She stopped and smiled a tentative smile.

"Hello," Malcolm said, his voice coming out thick. He bit his lip, realising his sluggish brain had once again overlooked the fact that they could not understand each other.

The woman's eyes darted away for a moment. "Hello," she replied, in her warm, mezzo voice.

Her accent, much like his own, was sharp and Malcolm frowned. "You speak English?" he blurted out, feeling more than a bit confused.

An expression of mixed puzzlement and amusement came over the woman's face. She licked her lips and shrugged; and Malcolm realised she must have just repeated his greeting, guessing its meaning.

He made to shift but the world suddenly spun, making him scrunch his eyes shut. A few controlled breaths did nothing to stop a cold sweat from breaking on his forehead, and he knew he was losing his bearings; but the cool, wet cloth brought him back, and he ventured to open his eyes again.

The woman was there, concern in her eyes, which – he could now well see – were the dark blue-green of a mountain lake. She was gently dabbing his face, and he found that he was uncharacteristically uninhibited by her ministrations. Perhaps he was too grateful to be still alive, undoubtedly thanks to her cares.

"Thank you," he mumbled, hoping she would get the gist of it.

Stopping for a moment, she curved her lips in another small smile. Then she picked up, from the floor where she had put it, the cup she had been holding before, and held it in front of him, her eyebrows arching in a silent request. Malcolm had no idea what it contained, or even if whatever it contained was safe for human consumption; but for some very strange reason he felt he could instinctively trust her. With her help he raised himself on his right elbow and drank the warm liquid. It was mildly salty; soup-like and not too bad-tasting.

By the time he was finished, his body was trembling with exertion, and he was quite glad to lie down again. He must be running a fever. Well, it was the least he could expect. He could only hope the tingling didn't escalate into pain… or his burns didn't get infected…

"Thank you," he heard the woman's voice murmur; and, before slipping away, without thinking he replied, "You're welcome."

* * *

"Captain, I regret to inform you that I am still unable to find the exact cause for the disappearance of the Lieutenant's shuttlepod. Or the vessel's current location."

_I regret to inform you…_

Archer wondered if T'Pol was aware of the fact that she had just expressed an emotion; or that those were the very words used to tell families of the loss of a dear one. The image of Malcolm's parents flashed through his mind, and he hardened his facial muscles to keep his own emotions off his face as he held the Vulcan Officer's gaze.

"No progress at all? No idea?" he enquired, narrowing his eyes. Damn, twenty-four hours later they couldn't be further from finding out what had happened!

T'Pol blinked once. "I have… no scientific evidence. I can only speculate, and that would not--"

"I know you want scientific evidence, T'Pol," Archer interrupted her in earnest, "but right now we don't have that luxury. Let's start with something, anything." He heaved a patient breath. "What can you _guess_?"

T'Pol's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly to one side in what looked like an unhappy smirk. "Sensors' readings bounce back as if they met a mirroring surface," she said quietly. "Something definitely reflects them and since we cannot observe any object in the region of space where the pod disappeared, it seems quite… _plausible_ that we are facing a cloaking field." She raised her eyebrows. "A very large one: it extends for miles."

Archer shifted his gaze to the porthole and frowned while his mind processed the information. "If the shuttlepod disappeared behind this cloaking field..." He returned his eyes to her. "Let's send a probe."

T'Pol tilted her head. "It might be able to give us a few readings, before disappearing like the shuttlepod. I shall get Ensign Müller."

Archer nodded and watched her leave.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

Malcolm's drowsiness dissolved at a speed that was directly proportional to the awakening of his faithful friend: his sixth sense. Right now it was telling him that someone was nearby, and he tensed up instinctively, sending a few ripples of pain up his arm and through his shoulder. It was nothing unbearable; in fact, if he weren't influenced by the memory of having seen with his own eyes the extent of his injuries, he wouldn't even have thought of it as _pain_, just as discomfort.

Eyes still closed, Malcolm lay very still. Yes. Someone was definitely there, and it wasn't the woman. No, this wasn't the woman, whom – his paranoid self had started to nag – he had so readily accepted into his trust. But if it wasn't her... Weak as he was, Malcolm felt much too vulnerable, which sent his anxiousness up a few notches.

_Come on, Lieutenant; take the bull by the horns_.

Heart thumping, he slowly opened his eyes and twisted a little to scan what he could see of the room from his disadvantageous position. Everything seemed quiet. No one was around. Could his gut feeling have been wrong for once? A blur of movement behind the armchairs reassured him of its infallibility. A domestic animal perhaps? Malcolm held his breath. Moments later two curious eyes, topped by a characteristically light and dark mop of hair, peeped out from behind the seats. Meeting his, they widened.

Malcolm couldn't help letting out the breath as a relieved groan, which he belatedly tried to turn into something less frightening – like a clearing of the throat – when he saw fear dawn in the gaze.

He forced his lips into a smile. "Hi," he croaked out, much too awkwardly. Damn it, but for some reason children put him almost as ill at ease as superior officers.

To his – if it _was_ a he – credit the child did not run away, as Malcolm had half expected. When he himself was small, he had made more than a few fast escapes to avoid being surprised sneaking a look at his parents' guests late at night. And they hadn't even been aliens, although his father might have turned into one, if he had caught him out of bed.

Standing up slowly instead, the child took a daring step from behind his cover and froze, staring unblinkingly in Malcolm's direction.

He - Malcolm decided it must be a he - looked, by Earth standards, about five or six; a scrawny thing who must have never set eyes on someone from another world, judging by the cautious but obviously intrigued expression on his face.

Malcolm licked his lips. "My name is Malcolm Re-- Malcolm," he enunciated slowly, patting his chest with his good hand. He put on another ingratiating smile, and the eyes tracked down to his mouth, though the child's face remained impassive.

Silence stretched.

Clearing his throat, Malcolm pointed to him. "What is your name?" he tried.

He felt like an utter fool, speaking to a child who didn't understand him, but remaining silent under this close a scrutiny was almost as bad as standing at attention in Captain Archer's ready room when he knew a dressing-down was due. He returned the boy's stare a moment longer; then, when no sound came, he thought that perhaps if he paid him no attention, the child would feel free to leave, so he turned to his own issues, namely checking his injuries. They were still covered in cottage cheese, or whatever that was, but he was feeling better. Yes, definitely better. He thought his fever might be all but gone.

"My name is Zen."

Malcolm looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise: the words had been spoken softly but in impeccable English.

"How old are you?" he asked on impulse.

A determined frown knit the boy's brow as he bit his lip.

Malcolm raised his open hand. "Five years old? More?"

"Years old," was the immediate reply, accompanied by one hand open and three fingers.

"Eight." He looked small for eight. Although there was no telling how long a year lasted on this planet, or what stage of development a child of that age would reach.

"Eight years old," Zen repeated diligently.

That was bloody impressive. Malcolm didn't think even Hoshi could learn a language that fast; at least not at that age. He smiled at Zen again, a full, genuine smile this time. Actually, there was something about this child that seemed almost familiar: his calm demeanour, perhaps; or that thoughtful expression.

A general aching in his body brought his attention back to himself, making him shift uncomfortably on his mat. He had been mostly out of it and had lost track of time; he didn't know how long he'd been in this house, but his body had just about had enough of lying flat: his bones were beginning to complain. He wondered if he dared sit. Casting another look at his burns, he was about to try, when he heard noises coming from the other side of the house, through the open door.

The woman was talking to someone; there was the low-pitched voice of a man. Malcolm vaguely remembered hearing him once before, just before slipping into unconsciousness. By the sound of it, they seemed to be arguing about something.

Zen's head twisted abruptly to the open door; then back to him, alarm painted on his face.

"Your mother?" Malcolm asked. "You know, mother; mom, mummy…" The word on Earth seemed to have a common root, at least in most of the languages he had a vague knowledge about; perhaps also on this planet it sounded something similar.

The child nodded. "Mother." He cast another wary glance in the direction of the voices, which could be heard getting closer. Then his eyes darted to the window – the only other way out of the room. But it was too late to make an escape through it: the voices were virtually at the door now. The boy shot Malcolm an inquisitive look, as if wondering where this alien's loyalty would be, and scrambled behind the armchairs again, pulling them more together as cover.

Malcolm felt a grin tug at his mouth – he was beginning to like this little bloke – but it fell the moment the voices' owners materialised at the room's door. The woman was half-turned and talking animatedly with a taller person who followed her: a man. They had dropped their voices low, probably thinking he was sleeping, but there was tension in their tones; it didn't take a genius to know they were disagreeing on something.

The man looked a good few years older than the woman. His hair was chestnut but greying at the temples. And he had no intricate designs on his forehead; only two darker stripes that fanned out from the bridge of his nose into his hairline.

The taut conversation lasted only till the man caught Malcolm looking: he stopped in his tracks, cutting himself off in mid sentence, and the woman followed suit, turning abruptly, and for a moment time stood still.

"Hello again," Malcolm croaked out, addressing the woman.

As a response she murmured something to the chap, who shot her a glance which, Malcolm thought, was fraught with irritation; then he came forward. The man knelt beside the mat and peered unwaveringly into his eyes; and now, from this distance, Malcolm could see that he had been mistaken: it wasn't anger that had flickered in the light brown gaze, but rather concern.

The man's assessing gaze travelled over Malcolm's face and body before stopping on his injuries. A quiet word over his shoulder sent the woman on her way.

This was the second time in a few minutes Malcolm had to stand a silent scrutiny, definitely something he didn't particularly enjoy. He made to try and sit up but the man put a fast hand to his good shoulder and stopped him, muttering something which the shaking of his head made unmistakably clear.

They waited for what felt like ages, their gazes doing the awkward dance of crossing and shifting away several times; then finally the woman was back with a basin filled with water, and cloths, which she set down on a low stool.

Looking suddenly impatient to get into action, the man produced a phial from his breastpocket, and with practised movements emptied its contents into the water. There was a soft fizzing sound, and a strong smell filled the air. Malcolm watched with slight apprehension, afraid to guess what all this might be about. Dipping one cloth into the liquid, the man wrung it and reached out for his injured arm.

"Wait…"

Malcolm flinched away. He wasn't all that sure he wanted his injuries touched. Or rather, he was bloody certain he didn't. Not without a little painkiller first. He sought the woman's eyes, hoping she would understand, but her mouth twisted into a lopsided smirk. Kneeling near the man, she touched Malcolm's arm and murmured a few of her soothing words. The message, once again, was quite clear, and Malcolm heaved a patient breath. It looked like he had to give up his trust to yet another person on this planet.

"All right," he croaked out, not minding if no one understood him. "After all, I am feeling better, and not because of anything that I did."

The man cast him another very direct look, one that seemed to say 'I know what I'm doing'; then started delicately washing away the curd-like substance that covered Malcolm's injuries. Pins and needles attacked his over-sensitive skin, but Malcolm made an effort not to wince; the operation wasn't really painful, and as his body slowly emerged from under the layer of 'cottage cheese' his jaw almost dropped in surprise. The skin looked pink and tender, but whole. That substance, whatever it was, gave Phlox's dermo-regeneration treatments a run for their money.

The man expertly washed his arm, shoulder and side, and Malcolm studied him as he worked, wondering what he had been discussing with the woman. Could it have been him? Their eyes met a few more times, but the guy would always quickly return to focus on his task. An intense expression had replaced the concern that had been on his face just a few minutes before. He looked very proficient and there was little doubt in Malcolm's mind that this was a physician of some sort.

When he had finished, the man gently patted him dry and applied a clear ointment to his healing skin, with light, circular motions. Finally, he leaned back on his heels, wiping his hands clean on a cloth.

"Better," the man said, nodding as he gave him a meaningful look.

Malcolm stared at him wordlessly for a second. These people really had a knack for languages. "Much better, thank you," he eventually found his voice to reply.

Once again the man nodded. He got to his feet and exchanged a few quiet words with the woman, tension entering his voice again.

Behind them, Malcolm caught Zen peeking out of his hiding place and quickly averted his gaze.

The two adults had begun another discussion and Malcolm concentrated on them, studying their gestures to try and get some clue as to what they were arguing about. But as soon as the woman caught him looking, she gently pulled the man along with her, and they left the room.

Immediately one armchair was pushed forward, and Zen jumped out from behind it. A coy smile tugged for the first time at his lips as he stood ram-rod straight before Malcolm. "Thank you," he said very clearly. Then he ran out, finally making his safe escape.

* * *

Müller pressed the button, eyes on the instruments' readings before him. Without looking up he announced, "It's launched, Sir. It should be at Shuttlepod Two's last known position in about three minutes."

Archer shifted his eyes from Malcolm's SIC to the viewscreen, briefly passing by Trip, who was sitting tensely at the engineering console. Everyone's gaze was riveted on the sleek form of a probe, which could be seen zooming away from Enterprise.

"Two minutes, thirty seconds," Müller counted down, slicing the thick silence.

Archer glanced to the other side of the Bridge, where T'Pol sat straight in her chair, calm and collected as always.

"Two minutes."

"You _have_ set it to auto destruct, haven't you, Ensign?" Archer felt compelled to ask.

Green eyes met green eyes. "Aye, Sir. At three minutes, ten seconds."

"Wouldn't want to hit Malcolm's pod with it by mistake; or anything else for that matter."

That earned him a concerned glance from Hoshi.

Seconds ticked by.

"Twenty seconds."

"Magnify." Archer gripped the armrests of his chair and sat forward in it.

"Five, four, three, two, one..."

The probe vanished in front of their eyes.

"T'Pol?" Archer asked tautly.

"The probe disappeared, and readings stopped coming in," she replied, without raising her gaze from her instruments.

A muttered curse floated from the Engineering console.

Archer pursed his lips.

"However, based on this observation," T'Pol continued, "I believe I can now declare that this is indeed a very large cloaking field."

"The question is what lies behind it," Archer wondered darkly.

Trip's determined voice made them all turn to him. "Capt'n, I am willing to go see."

"Hold your horses, Trip." Archer walked pensively to the railing near Hoshi's console. "What time is it on Earth?"

Hoshi's eyes narrowed as she made a brief mental calculation. "Early evening, Sir. Seven thirty."

"Get me Admiral Forrest," Archer ordered quietly, and headed for the ready room.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

More than half an hour had passed since Hoshi had told him that Archer had finished speaking with Forrest. Raising a hand to the ready room chime, Trip let it hover there for a moment. Perhaps he ought to wait before… Ah, no, this time he couldn't wait.

"Come," Archer called from within as soon as the bell rang.

As Trip entered, the Captain shot him a knowing look; then leaned back in his chair, placing two fingers on his eyes. The confidence Trip had carefully built up left him all at once.

"Trip?" was the curt greeting.

Trip studied his friend's face. It looked weary and defeated. He felt his blood run cold, but summoned his courage.

"Capt'n, may I ask what the Admiral said?"

Archer heaved a sigh. "Nothing good," he breathed out, fingers still pressing on his eyes. "He acknowledged the situation and told us we are not to cross that region of space unless we find a way to see what lies behind that cloaking field."

Trip's brain refused to process that. "I can take the other pod and…"

"You _can't_ take the other pod _and_, Trip," Archer cut him off, dropping his hand and shooting him a direct look. "That's exactly what the Admiral ordered us _not _to do. You would follow the same fate as the first pod and the probe."

Trip clenched his jaw. "Not necessarily. I could fly it so that I touch the field but not enter it; that might give us an idea of what we are facing."

Archer rubbed his neck, wincing. "I want to bring Malcolm home as much as you do," he said hoarsely. "But I am not going to risk any more lives in the process."

Tip looked back numbly, unable to move. "So what do we do now?" he breathed out.

Pushing tiredly to his feet, Archer took the few steps to his porthole and leaned with his shoulder against the bulkhead, peering out into the darkness. "We keep trying," he said with quiet determination.

* * *

Malcolm accepted the plate with a grateful nod. His appetite was returning, which was a good sign. Chunks of something – family unknown – floated in a thick sauce, and he was reminded of the special 'blood soup' Trip had told him he and the Captain had had to taste down on that desert planet. He fervently hoped that recipe hadn't found its way to this place. He picked up a piece with his spoon and held it tentatively in front of his mouth.

"Good," Zen told him encouragingly from across the table, sporting that older-than-his-age expression Malcolm had come to like. "Eat."

"New food for Malcolm," his mother told him, in mild reproach. "Zen eat."

It was stunning the speed at which these people were picking up English. Malcolm had been here, from what he had been able to gather, for no more than three days, and they were already able to hold a conversation.

With a conniving glance at the boy, Malcolm put the morsel into his mouth. It definitely had an alien taste, but wasn't bad. "It is good, Reeba," he complimented the woman.

His host's eyes flickered with amusement. "Malcolm not..." The soft lines of her face creased in a frown as she looked for the right word. "True?" she tried.

"Telling the truth" Malcolm corrected her. "All right," he admitted with a conceding smile. "It tastes a little strange. But I don't dislike it."

They ate in silence for a few moments, and Malcolm stole a few glances at the two people sitting on the other side of the table from him. He hadn't learnt much more than their names, due to the language barrier. But that was coming down at an exponential rate now. Perhaps it was time to ask a few questions.

Malcolm shifted his gaze from the morsel sitting on his spoon to Reeba and enquired, "Do you and Zen live here alone?"

The woman cast him a nervous glance, and Malcolm realised she might consider it a threatening question. After all, what did she know about him? Revealing that she lived alone might put her and her son at risk.

"I'm sorry," he hastened to add, putting down his spoon and lowering his gaze to his plate. "I don't really have a right to ask." Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm caught Zen nudge his mother with an elbow, and lifted his eyes just in time to see her glare at him.

Silence fell again.

His skin was healing so fast that it itched awfully. Malcolm absentmindedly began to rub his left arm, causing it to itch even more. His grimace of discomfort didn't go unnoticed.

"Malcolm…" Reeba reproached.

She got up and fetched a can of ointment the man had left on his last visit, strong-smelling stuff he would have never considered spreading over himself if it hadn't had the miraculous property of calming down the irritation.

With a muttered 'thank you' he took it and pushed to his feet - he wasn't going to remove his shirt and spread smelly ointment on himself at the table, in front of a woman. Unfortunately his body had other ideas, and he found himself groping for the back of a chair to keep himself upright. This was the first time he had been up and about: he might be on a fast mend but his fever had broken not so long ago, leaving him so bloody weak.

Reeba took him gently by his good arm. "You not good."

"I'm fine," Malcolm automatically protested.

Amusement appeared once again on Reeba's face, complete, this time, with an endearing dimpled smile. "Not telling the truth."

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but what the hell was he going to say to that? She lowered him with gentle force on the seat again and he let her, having neither the energy nor the confidence to oppose her. Turning awkwardly the other way to get at least some feeling of privacy, he began to undo the fastenings on the shirt she had given him to wear. A moment later her hands were helping him remove it. Before he knew it, she was applying ointment to his shoulder. Malcolm cast a glance back over it mumbling another 'thank you', but she didn't meet his eye.

"Tfu always live alone."

Her uncertain tone of voice made Malcolm turn all the way this time, and she stopped and looked at him with eyes that seemed both eager and afraid to trust him.

"Reeba, you don't need to worry," he quietly reassured her. "I won't hurt you."

All lightness had gone from her. Her gaze bore into him for one long moment before she returned to rubbing salve on his injuries.

Malcolm wondered what to make of her words. "Tfu – is that the name of this planet's species?"

"Species?"

Zen, who had been following very closely the whole proceedings, muttered a word to his mother.

"Oh," Reeba said. "_Species_."

Malcolm flashed the boy a quick smile. The lad was bright.

"Tfu one species. Other species Elk."

"Two species?" Malcolm turned and raised two fingers.

A blob of ointment on her fingertips, Reeba gently forced Malcolm around again. Placing his left arm to rest on the table, she began to apply the balm to his side. Her touch was feather-light, and Malcolm who had tensed up in anticipation of some discomfort, began to relax.

"Yes, two. Elk very more many. Tfu very more few but very more…" She trailed, once again missing the right word.

Malcolm cast a glance at Zen, but he shrugged, pointing to his temple.

"Intelligent?" Malcolm tried. He could very well believe that. In three days these people had virtually healed burns that were potentially life-threatening, and could more or less talk in a language they had never heard before.

"Fast," Zen supplied, still touching his temple.

"Intelligent, quick-witted," Malcolm confirmed, nodding. "So, why do the Tfu live alone?" he enquired over his shoulder.

Reeba said a soft word to her son and the boy reluctantly rose. Picking up the plates from the table, he took them to the sink near the counter and left.

Malcolm caught the hand that was still gently rubbing smelly stuff on his side and stopped it as he turned to face the woman. He met eyes that were dark and conflicted. "If you don't want to tell me I'll understand," Malcolm said quietly. "But please believe me when I say that I will not hurt you or your son. I'm telling the truth."

The green-blue gaze twinkled. "Truth like… Malcolm is _fine_?"

Right. It hadn't taken him very long to get known for his "fine" routine on this planet. Malcolm looked away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. That's something I tend to say because I don't like _not_ to be fine," he said. When he looked back there was a budding smile on Reeba's face, which he ended up mirroring.

They studied each other unashamedly for a moment, and it was only when Reeba pulled her hand back that Malcom realised he was still holding it. "Sorry," he muttered again, causing another dimple to appear.

She helped him back into his shirt.

"Elk do not want Tfu stay together. If Tfu together, they too intelligent, they too…"

"Powerful," Malcolm finished for her, doing the fastenings. He was beginning to see. Not a rosy picture...

"How about your husband?" These Elk people could at least keep families together, he thought grimly. Perhaps the man who had treated him was Reeba's husband; although he looked a bit old for her.

"Husband?"

"Your… companion, Zen's father."

Reeba quickly lowered her gaze. Without a word, she went to the sink to wash her hands; then got busy with the chores. Malcolm watched her, not sure what to do or say.

"Tfu women no companion," she offered tersely after a long moment, without turning.

"Then how--" Malcolm cut himself off. That was too personal a question; he had no business asking it. What was it with him, anyway? He wasn't a nosy person. But this lonely woman intrigued him. She had taken care of an alien who had fallen out of the blue, an alien she knew nothing about. A nice change from all the hostile people they had come across during their mission.

"Elk decide when Tfu women have child."

The words had been spoken unemotionally, as if Reeba didn't really care, and Malcolm grimaced. Bearing a child should be a free, responsible and desired choice, not an imposition. Besides, there were other rather horrible implications to the idea. It appeared that not only did the Elk keep the Tfu isolated, so they would not pose a threat to their supremacy, but also controlled their growth rate, deciding how many Tfu children were to be born. And he didn't want to know how pregnancies were initiated...

Well, there weren't only these people's troubles, there was also his own. And since he couldn't say he liked this planet, the sooner he got off it, the better.

Holding on to the table in case of another bout of dizziness, Malcolm got up slowly, and when he was sure his legs wouldn't betray him, went to join the woman at the sink.

"Reeba, I need to contact my ship," he said abruptly when she glanced at him.

"Ship burnt, like Malcolm."

She paused and pushed an unruly lock of that strange hair of hers back from her forehead with a wet hand; then swept a sleeve across her brow to dry the spot. A drop or two of water fell on her cleavage. Malcolm found his thoughts straying towards things that had nothing to do with Enterprise, and forced them back to the issue.

"Not that ship, a bigger one, up in the sky," he clarified. "I had a communicator in my uniform's sleeve, a… a device to talk with my ship." He made a gesture with his hands. Reeba darted him an enigmatic look, so Malcolm added, "It's very important."

He studied her suddenly jerking movements, and the tension that exuded from her whole body. He could see she had got very defensive. He took her gently by an arm. "Have you found my communicator?"

"Work not," she said, worry making her voice edgy.

Well, that had to be seen. Malcolm bit his lip. "I may be able to fix it," he said calmly, pinning her with his gaze.

She made to get away from his grasp, but he tightened it, trapping her. Panic painted itself on her face, which made him release her at once and take a step back in confusion. "I apologise," he mumbled awkwardly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Reeba hugged her shoulders, looking troubled. "Elk not like not-Elk."

It sounded like a tongue twister, but Malcolm got the gist of it. Stupid and xenophobic. Brilliant.

"If Malcolm try contact ship, Elk can find…"

Another piece of the puzzle fell in place.

"They will punish you if they find me here?"

But he didn't really need to ask, the answer was pretty obvious; and his suspicions were confirmed when no reply came. He was getting to dislike this place more and more.

"Is that why you and the man who came to treat me argued?" he wondered aloud, frowning. "Because he didn't want to risk you – or himself – being found by the Elk with an alien?"

Once again, his question was left without an answer. Reeba turned tensely away from him, busying herself with chores again.

Well, that didn't leave him much choice. He would not endanger the wellbeing of this woman and her son by remaining.

"I can't stay here," Malcolm muttered to himself. He turned away from her to collect his thoughts and the world blurred, sending him groping for something to hold him up. He found a wet hand.

"Malcolm not fine. Malcolm stay," Reeba said in a voice that held a note of... what was it?

Despite his dizziness, Malcolm shook his head. "I can't risk being found here."

Strength had seeped out of him rather too quickly; and he was confused - too much to deal with. She had taken him by the elbow, and he let her guide him to his mat. Sinking down on it, he relinquished himself to the darkness, because he was too drained to fight it, but also to escape the nagging voice that was telling him it wouldn't be so easy to get back to Enterprise.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

If there was one thing that made Archer antsy, it was forced inactivity. He was a man of action, and this waiting was the hardest thing to bear. But he had to rely on his crew; namely, in this case, on his science officer. Dammit, there ought to be something that T'Pol could come up with to see past...

The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, and in his hurry to get out of the ready room Archer almost knocked himself unconscious on the bulkhead.

The bridge crew was in a silent mood. Not that the place was ever noisy – except for when the ship was under attack – but this silence was different.

Archer glanced at the Engineering station. Trip was there, eyes fixed on the console in front of him, pretending to be doing something. Who did he think he was fooling? His face was too inexpressive for his brain to be eangaged in anything. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of a bad night. Across from him, T'Pol was still bent over her own station, as she had been ever since this crisis had begun. She was still the picture of calm. Her face might not be lined with tiredness, courtesy of Vulcan physiology, but Archer doubted if she had left her post for longer than a toilet break or a quick meal.

"Commander," he said, breaking the silence as a pebble would the stillness of a pond. Eyes converged on him from all around, Trip's surmounted by a frown. "Those positron-based beacons Daniels had us build: are they still mounted on the grappler's arm?"

Trip's gaze lit up like a lamp. "Why the hell didn't I think of that?" he exclaimed, coming to life and jumping up. "They aren't, but gimme a minute and they will be again."

Out of the corner of his eye, Archer saw T'Pol tilt her head. "Captain," she said, "It is unlikely the beacons will see through this cloaking field; they weren't designed to penetrate something of this magnitude."

"It's still worth a try," Trip argued.

Some forty-five minutes later, the bridge crew collectively held their breath.

"Travis," Archer ordered. "Extend the grappler arm and point the beacons towards the cloaking field."

"Gladly, Sir," Travis's eager voice replied. But the viewscreen showed only blackness.

T'Pol cocked an eyebrow. "As I said, the beacons were not designed for..."

"That doesn't mean they won't work, Capt'n," Trip cut her off, without a thought for rank and protocol. "I can try to modify them."

Archer shot him a disapproving look. But it was good to have something to work at, some hope; good to see the spark back in Trip's eyes. All he had to do was dip his head in a short nod, and for the second time in the space of an hour the Chief Engineer took off for the turbo lift almost at a run.

* * *

Malcolm finished lathering his face with the rather oily soap in use on this planet and paused a moment to study the reflection in the mirror, wincing at what he saw. Wearing uniform trousers that were kept up by a rough belt because the top part of the overall had been cut off gave him a Robinson Crusoe look, but… no, it wasn't that. His eyes were a dull grey, and he had lost some weight. After the first couple of days, when he had been too sick, Malcolm had eaten properly. Or as properly as he could: he had a feeling the food Reeba prepared didn't provide enough nutrients for human physiology. Shifting his eyes downwards he marvelled once more, though, at how incredibly fast his burns had healed. He raised his left arm and turned to inspect his side. The skin was still an angry pink and scarred, but without these people he would undoubtedly have been food for whatever animals roamed this planet by now.

With a sigh, Malcolm turned to face the mirror again. It felt good to be clean, despite the wild and rather disquieting experience of using what served for washing facilities in this place. He hadn't exactly enjoyed the narrow pit that gradually filled with water. Only _he_ could get stranded on a planet where you felt like you were going to drown every time you washed.

After he had finished the unnerving upside-down shower, he had asked Reeba to lend him a knife so he could shave. She had given him a long, searching look, as piercing as the blade she had eventually trusted him to hold.

Malcolm passed a finger on its sharp edge, feeling grateful. He knew that if Enterprise had rescued an alien, he wouldn't have been so ready to trust them with a potentially lethal weapon.

Finally bringing the knife to his face, Malcolm began to shave. He was so concentrated on avoiding cutting a slash across his cheek that he startled and almost did injure himself when he noticed, reflected in the mirror, Zen watching him intently from the door of the small toilet room. The boy was often hovering around him, though he usually kept a discreet distance, as if wary of getting too close.

"Hello there," Malcolm said, meeting his gaze through the mirror, without turning. When he got no reply he returned to his task, throwing an occasional glance – having someone behind his back, no matter how small, was not in his list of favourites. Head tilted to one side, Zen looked to be studying him.

"What Malcolm do?"

The question hung in the air for a beat while Malcolm rounded the curve of his chin. "I'm shaving." Seeing the child's perplexed expression, he went on to explain, "I remove the hair that grows on my face. I usually do it every day." He inspected his job and smirked. "Just not with a knife." Pulling his face sideways to do the last bit around his jaw, he slurred, "Don't men on this planet have a beard?"

In the mirror he saw Zen shake his head silently. Malcolm frowned. He thought the man who had treated him had had a beard; but then again, he hadn't exactly been very lucid at the time. He was about to shrug the doubt off when the boy spoke again.

"What Malcolm do _on the ship_?" he specified.

Malcolm turned; this was the first time Zen was openly showing his curiosity about him. He caught the child's eyes shifting to the knife in his hand, and slowly set it down on the sink; then crouched, one knee on the floor, to be on the same level with the boy. "I keep the ship and her crew safe," he said, liking the intelligence in the little bloke's inquisitive eyes. "I defend them from harm."

The thought of Enterprise tightened a knot in his stomach. He hadn't been able yet to get Reeba to give him his communicator; she had shied away with an excuse every time he had approached her about it, and he was getting anxious. He had been on this planet far too long without being in contact with the ship. He could see the woman was worried, and he didn't want to endanger these people who had saved his life; but neither did he want to stand idle, waiting to be rescued. He needed to get his communicator back, and leave this house. Perhaps he could even try and activate the homing beacon on the shuttle – if something was left of the vessel. That was another thing he needed to talk to the woman about: he had no idea where to find the pod's wreck.

His face must have shown some of his thoughts, because when he refocused on the boy, he was frowning. Perhaps… perhaps this child could help him.

"Zen…" In his eagerness to get through to him he reached a hand out to touch the boy's shoulder, but he flinched away and Malcolm stopped short. Curbing his impatience, he added calmly, "There was something in the pocket of my uniform's sleeve; a communicator, something I use to talk to my ship. Do you know where it is?"

Zen's eyes narrowed. "Malcolm show how to defend," he said firmly.

Malcolm heaved a deep breath. After what he had learnt about the Elk, he could well imagine why Zen wanted to learn hand-to-hand. Pursing his lips, he took a moment to reply, wondering how to handle this. He was no child psychologist; in fact, he had no experience whatsoever dealing with children.

"You are too small," he began, but that only caused an immediate scowl to appear on the boy's face. Well, he couldn' blame Zen. After all he still remembered how irritating it had been to feel patronised by adults. But first things first. "This is important," he pressed, hearing a hint of frustration enter his voice. "I need to get in contact with my ship." He reached for the boy's arm, and this time he didn't draw back. "I won't endanger you and your mother," he reassured. "I promise I will go away before using it."

Zen put on a dogged look. "Malcolm show Zen how to defend, Zen give Malcolm the communicator."

Oh. A deal. Malcolm tilted his head, secretly amused at the boy's sly determination. He let his eyes track from Zen's resolute face to his skinny frame. "I can't teach you hand-to-hand combat, you are too small and light," he repeated gently. "You need to grow up a bit more."

"I can throw a knife," Zen insisted, shifting his serious gaze to the object in question. "I want to know how to defend."

Stubborn little thing. Well, it sounded quite familiar: Malcolm knew all about stubborness. Perhaps he _could_ think of a few moves even a small person might learn and put to good use.

"All right," he relented. "Come on."

The boy's face lit up in anticipation, and Malcolm could not restrain a smile, unexpectedly infected by his excitement.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

Engineering was eerily quiet without the hum of the warp engine. Without the hum of _any_ engine. Trip was having a very hard time concentrating: silence was more distracting than the organised commotion the place was usually in when Enterprise zapped through the universe at her cruise speed.

Damn, but he was getting nowhere. He had called upon all of his professional creativity and intuition to make those beacons do the trick, but nothing had come from it, and he was losing hope. He was running short of ideas and the quiet environment, far from helping him focus, was pressing down on him, the silence too loud to ignore.

Maybe he was too tired. Maybe it was time to get some rest.

Trip slid forward in his chair and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. His shoulders were tense, aching; hell, his entire body was tense and aching. Honestly, it _was_ time to take a rest. His breathing became heavy and rhythmical, and Trip relinquished to fatigue, too weary to fight it and claw back the ground he had lost to it. Ah, to be able to let go...

Maybe he should accept the fact that he didn't understand much of positron-based beacons, and declare himself defeated. Maybe he should accept the fact that a friend was dead. People were born and died every day. There was a first and a last day for everyone: they were part of the fate of every human being.

God, what was he…? Scared by his own thoughts, Trip jerked his head back up. Malcolm _wasn't_ dead. They didn't know that, dammit! With an effort he sat up straighter, determined not to surrender – to tiredness or to resignation.

The sound of steps approaching made him roll his eyes. Rostov had been hovering around him as if afraid that he would break. "Go get some rest, Michael," he called over his shoulder. "I'll hold the fort till Kelby's shift."

There was a clearing of the throat as a reply, but it was a bit too high pitched to come from Rostov, and Trip turned to see Hoshi, standing a couple of meters away, with a tray in her hands.

"No one saw you anywhere near the mess hall since this morning... I thought you might be hungry, Commander," she said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Trip sighed. "Not really," he muttered. He stood and took the tray from her hands. "But thanks for the thought. I suppose I oughtta eat something, if only to feed my grey matter. It might decide to reward me with some brilliant idea." He lifted the lid, and his eyebrows went up with it. "Pan-fried catfish?"

"Chef thought it might cheer you up," Hoshi commented with a gentle shrug.

Trip gave a mirthless huff. "I'd readily give up eatin' catfish for the rest of my life to be able to make these beacons work."

The words dropped a veil of worry over Hoshi's features, and she made a visible effort not to let her features crumple.

"Ah, Hoshi..." Trip put down the tray. "We can't lose hope," he told her; but his heart was not in the words and of course the Communication Officer heard that. Blinking, she half-turned in self-consciousness and muttered a 'sorry', sounding angry with herself.

"It's ok. It's not as if I'm feelin' much better," Trip admitted flatly.

"My mind can't stop working," Hoshi choked out. "It keeps making up such horrible scenarios..." She shifted the weight on her hips, hiding her face behind a hand. "If he's alive, he might be hurt. He must be wondering why we are not coming..." Dropping her hand abruptly, she asked bluntly, "Do you think he's still alive?"

It was the question that kept running through Trip's own mind and he hadn't yet wanted to answer. Four days had passed. He knew that Malcolm was a resorceful person but this protracted silence was worrisome. No, he would not believe him dead until he saw it with his own eyes.

"I don't know, Hoshi," he replied at length, "But if it was any of us, he would never give up. We owe him that much."

Hoshi heaved a deep breath, one corner of her mouth twitching in a lopsided smirk. "I'd better get back to the bridge. You never know when we might get a transmission and, I don't want to boast, but I trust my ears better than those of any relief crewman."

"That's the attitude," Trip said with an encouraging nod. Hoshi might look fragile, but he knew to the opposite. She herself was beginning to realise how strong she could be. "And I'd better get back to those beacons," he added, again finding his own determination. He reached for a padd. but a small hand stopped him.

"First you eat, Trip. I already have one friend to worry about."

As Trip's eyes fell again on the plate on his desk, his empty stomach betrayed him with an audible growl. "Alright," he sighed, patting his belly. "You two win."

§ _Three weeks later _§

"It's been almost four weeks, Jon. Starfleet Command has decided to declare Lieutenant Reed MIA."

Archer's chest tightened. That's what he had feared, when Hoshi had told him Forrest was on the line. Try as they might, they had not been able to penetrate the cloaking field and he had known that this would be coming.

"Admiral," he said, carefully controlling his features and voice, "Don't get me wrong, but I'm not ready to leave someone behind without knowing for certain that he's dead." He saw Forrest's eyes grow sympathetic. The man was almost like a second father to him, and they shared understanding that went beyond words.

"A Captain must be capable of facing the inevitable, Jon. It's part of the job. We may not know what's behind that cloak, but we do know that a man in a shuttlepod cannot survive for more than fifteen, twenty days before running out of oxygen." Forrest's gaze bore into him. "Lieutenant Reed is almost certainly dead by now."

Archer felt his blood boil with a suddenness that surprised him. "'_Almost _certainly' is not good enough for me, Admiral; and it shouldn't be good enough for Starfleet either," he spat out, leaning forward in his chair the better to get his argument across. "As you said, we don't know what's behind that cloaking field. Reed might be a prisoner on some alien starship, for all we know, injured even. Is Starfleet Command willing to ignore that and abandon one of his own to his destiny?"

Forrest shook his head. "Jon, we don't know that we are abandoning anyone either. The probabilities of Reed being still alive are extremely low. If you can't see behind that cloaking field, you can't risk crossing it. And if you can't cross it, then at some point you must resume your mission; you can't keep Enterprise stalled forever. There is nothing you or I can do about it. I know it's painful, I know it seems cruel, but it's unavoidable." He heaved a deep breath, and Archer could see that under the uniform, the man was torn. "You know this as well as I do, Jon."

Forrest was a good person, and to the good person Archer appealed. "Don't ask me to do this, Admiral," he said quietly, trying not to plead.

Forrest's eyes grew pained. "I can't avoid it, Captain," he replied gently, and the use of rank, in its finality, sent a shiver down Archer's spine. "Starfleet's regulations..."

"To hell with them!" Biting his lip, Archer averted his gaze. "I'm sorry; that was out of line."

"It was," was the stern reply.

There was a sigh, and Archer returned his eyes to the monitor.

"Jon, I know how you must feel, believe me. Reed was a fine officer. But he signed on well aware of the risks that your mission entailed. You must think of the rest of your crew now. They need to get over the loss of a colleague; they need to see you in command. They need to get back to work."

Archer felt his mouth go dry and the pain in his chest get raw. What his crew needed, in his humble opinion, was to see that their Captain was not giving up trying to bring their Armoury Officer back. But he could not forget the pips on his shoulder; those pips meant discipline. And, ironically, discipline had been Malcolm's way of life. _Had been..._ He was unconsciously beginning to use the past tense.

"Aye, Sir," he said, managing to school his features impassive.

A moment later the Starfleet logo re-appeared on his monitor, signalling the end of the communication. Archer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering how the hell he was going to tell the rest of his crew they would have to leave without even knowing if their colleague and friend, the man who had kept them all safe, was dead or alive.

* * *

Sitting in the back of Reeba's house on a low wall, one foot up on it, Malcolm watched Zen throw a small knife against a wooden target, although his thoughts were only partly there.

_Thud._

The knife embedded itself in the round target and Zen smirked. Disappointment soon turned into frustration on the boys' face. The throw had not been a bad one, but Zen wouldn't be happy until he hit the bull's eye. The child shuffled to retrieve the blade and then back, casting Malcolm a rueful glance as he passed by.

"Don't think too much," Malcolm suggested. "Relax your arm and trust your instinct. You've nearly hit the centre before, you can do it."

Zen stopped and listened attentively; then he returned to his task, and Malcolm to his preoccupations.

Showing him a few self-defense moves, a couple of weeks before, had won the boy over to him for good; it had also won him the restitution of his communicator. Unfortunately the thing was a lovely mass of half-fused circuitry.

Lowering his foot to the ground, Malcolm reached into his pocket and retrieved the unusable device. He doubted even Trip would be able to... His heart clenched. Why had Enterprise not found him yet? Did they believe him dead? But even if they didn't, he knew Starfleet regulations down to the last iota, and after four weeks he would be declared MIA. And four weeks had just about passed.

He felt another painful stab at the thought of his parents and sister; he didn't want them to suffer on his account. Bloody hell, he wouldn't want to be in Archer's shoes, having to tell Stuart Reed that Starfleet had lost his son. Missing in action. He pictured the hard expression on his father's face, one he knew very well. He could almost hear the Captain's voice, fumbling for words.

Missing in action. In other words, abandoned to his destiny. Despair suddenly snaked in his gut and he clamped down hard on it. No, Captain Archer would not give up so easily, and neither would Trip. They would find a way to come for him.

_Thud._

Lifting his eyes, Malcolm watched Zen retrieve his knife again, his step springier now that his aim was getting more accurate. Their gazes met briefly as the boy turned back for another throw, and once again he liked what he saw in the lad's eyes. He admired strength of character, wherever it was found, even in a child.

"Better," the boy said, very seriously as he passed by.

"You're doing well," Malcolm replied very seriously too, not wanting to belittle the comment with a smile.

Zen's eyes twinkled.

Malcolm watched him take position again before letting his gaze stray to the wood in the distance, about fifty metres from the back of Reeba's isolated house. He was stranded on this planet without means of getting off it or contacting his ship. He had hoped he might at least be able to activate the homing beacon on the shuttlepod, and had asked Reeba to show him the location of the pod. She had reluctantly taken him to the large field where he had crash-landed, on the other side of the wood. The vessel lay in the middle of it, a half-buried, burnt wreck. A look inside it had confirmed what Malcolm had immediately feared: there was nothing that could be saved, let alone used to send a transmission.

_Thud._

Almost perfect centre. Zen glanced at Malcolm, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth.

"Another couple of throws and you might want to move the target further away," Malcolm said encouragingly.

Following the small figure as he went to retrieve his knife, Malcolm wondered what to do. He could not remain in this house indefinitely. He didn't like the idea of placing Reeba and Zen at risk. But where could he go? If he fell in the hands of the Elk he would certainly meet an untimely death; apparently they weren't very soft with outworldlers. Anyway he looked at it, his situation wasn't hopeful. Malcolm winced. This planet was just not made for aliens, and he had been extremely lucky to have been found by someone who had taken care of him instead of finishing him off.

Now that they could communicate better, Reeba had told him a little more of how things worked between the two species that inhabited this world. It was a symbiotic relationship in which the Elk took all and gave back little. They may provide for the Tfu's necessities, but certainly not out of their generous hearts: they needed their more intelligent co-species to run things smoothly and efficiently, but exploited their superior capacities, leaving them little freedom. Tfu men were kept under close supervision in the cities, where they were placed to work at key positions but carefully isolated from one another; women, as far as he had understood, were only good for reproduction, and raised their children single-handedly in the country. The two never met unless for specific reasons subject to Elk authorization.

Malcolm wondered at what age boys were taken away from their mothers, to be trained and put to work. His gaze returned to Zen. On second thought, he didn't really want to know.

Pins and needles attacked his left arm and he stretched it to try and work the feeling out of it. He still got those once in a while, and his tendons felt tight. After a moment his hand began to tremble and he clutched at it with his other one, annoyed. That's how fit he was these days. Not to speak of his general state of debility. The Tfu's diet was mostly vegetarian, and Malcolm wasn't exactly thriving on it: he had been unable to regain the weight and strength that he had lost, and if he was being honest with himself, he was actually losing weight. His eyes lifted to the vegetable garden and the orchard on one side of Reeba's low, squarish house: there were plants that grew strange fruits, oddly shaped and even more oddly coloured. Twice a week the woman took a hovering vehicle and drove away to get whatever other groceries and supplies she needed at a trading compound run by the Elk, but nothing she had brought back and cooked for him seemed to help.

A window opened, and Reeba briefly appeared at it. She cast a glance at her son and then at Malcolm. Malcolm wondered if she disapproved of his having given in to Zen's insistence that he teach the child a little hand-to-hand. Or of this supervised target practice. She hadn't expressed any opinion, one way or the other, but even now her face was not graced by one of her gentle smiles.

Zen told her something in their language, his tone rather upbeat. Reeba replied in a much more subdued voice; then disappeared.

Reeba was kind to Malcolm, if reserved. Well, no wonder, Malcolm mused: she was hardly used to having a man around house. All in all, what this woman lived was not a life of suffering, but neither one of happiness and plenty. Indeed not one of happiness: threatened with harsh punishments if found together, the Tfu lived lonely lives and had almost no social contacts, for the Elk did not mingle with them.

Malcolm opened and closed his hand, and little by little the tremor stopped. He grimaced, unhappy as always about anything that would impair his physical fitness. Still, he could only be grateful that he was alive: the man who had come to treat his injuries had done so at great personal danger. Malcolm had no doubt now that the doctor had been arguing with Reeba over the risk of their being caught helping someone who, sooner or later, would in all feasibility die all the same, killed by the Elk if not by his injuries.

Zen balanced the knife over his shoulder and threw it yet again.

Strange as it may seem, Malcolm found that he could relate in some way to this boy. Perhaps it was because Zen was smaller and frailer than his age, just as he had been as a child. Reeba had explained to him that Zen had been born prematurely. His small build and weak constitution meant that he received regular medical check-ups. As luck had it, one such visit had been on the day after Reeba had seen the smoking shuttlepod in the sky and found Malcolm unconscious near the vessel's wreck. Apparently the man who had treated him was a brilliant doctor and was employed in an important hospital, where he had developed innovative treatements for a number of conditions and ailments. Reeba had brief but regular contacts with him because of Zen. With a bit of cajoling the woman had convinced the doctor to file a false report, faking a slight fever of the boy, so he could get the permission to return a couple more times.

Getting up to stretch his legs, Malcolm had to pull up his uniform trousers, which had fallen low over his hips. They were beginning to be a bit too loose. He clenched his jaw. Damn it, but he could not stay here. Yet for all he knew Enterprise might already have left, and if that was the case...

"Are you thinking of your ship?"

Malcolm lowered his eyes to his small interlocutor. He must be wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Zen had stopped to study him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yes," he replied truthfully. "And about the fact that I can't remain here."

"You can't go away either," Zen said, with the straightforwardness typical of his young age. In these few weeks his English had got better by leaps and bounds. Reeba's too, but not as much.

Malcolm's eyebrows dipped despondently. "That's a problem," he commented in a dark voice.

"If we are careful the Elk will not find you."

"But if they find me the price you and your mother will pay will be too high. I cannot allow that."

Zen narrowed his eyes almost in challenge. "My mother take risk to save you. If Malcolm goes away, he gets killed and risk will be for nothing."

Frustration had made the boy stumble over the newly-acquired language, but the message was clear, and Malcolm wondered at the wisdom in the eight-year-old's reasoning. He had to admit that there was some truth in it: it didn't make sense to get killed after what Reeba had done to save him. The tactician in him had already calculated the odds of survival if he left this safe harbour, and they were close to nil. Yet his principled self rebelled at the idea of placing the lives of a woman and a child in danger for his own safety.

Malcolm rubbed two fingers over his eyes. He was not used to wavering. His profession called for split-second decisions and his mind always knew what to do. But now...

_Thud._

Dropping the hand at the squeal of satisfaction, Malcolm saw a full smile blossom on Zen's face. A perfect centre.

"Well done!"

Zen turned to him, his smile gradually fading as an unguarded expression came over his face. "You should not leave," he said quietly. "I want you to stay."

Something vaguely unsettling stirred inside Malcolm. The last person who had told him that had been his father, when he had informed him of his decision to leave England and join Starfleet; but the old man's tone of voice had been considerably different, as had the underlying message.

Malcolm gave the boy a bittersweet smile, which Zen mirrored, probably taking it for something it was not. This child had grown up without a father figure, and there was little doubt that he was fast becoming attached to this alien who had fallen out of the sky. But Malcolm hadn't joined a vessel of exploration to explore what being a father would feel like. In his own family he had never developed a good father-son relationship, and he wasn't even sure he ever wanted to be a parent; something about it scared the hell out of him.

The last thing he wanted was to hurt someone as innocent as a child, but it seemed there was little he could do to avoid it. There was a bloody good chance that he _would_ hurt this lad, because of his inexperience around children, but especially because he would eventually get the hell out off this planet. He desperately wanted to hold on to that hope. Zen deserved to be told the truth, needed to face the fact.

"I cannot stay here forever," Malcolm said gently. "Eventually I will return to my ship."

They held each other's gaze for a long moment. Then Zen turned on his heels and ran away, his light and dark strands of hair reflecting the contrasting emotions in Malcolm's heart.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

§ 8 §

Archer watched as the worst nightmare a parent could think of took form for Mr. and Mrs. Reed. That the call was for something serious must have been painted on his face, for before he could open his mouth the colour drained from Mrs. Reed's face, replaced by the pallor of dread. Stuart Reed's eyes, so very similar to Malcolm's in colour, if not in shape, became steely as his face hardened in foreboding. Yet what Archer was about to tell them was even worse than what they might expect. Death was final, but as far as he was concerned uncertainty could be even worse; it could drive one insane.

"Captain Archer. What happened?" Mr. Reed asked outright, his eyes unwavering in their concern. Behind him his wife clutched at the front of her shirt.

Archer swallowed, regretting having asked Forrest that he be the one to break the news to Malcolm's parents. He had felt it was his duty, but right now he'd rather be anywhere else than in front of this monitor.

"Mr. Reed; Mrs. Reed. I'm afraid there is no easy way to say this," he began.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Stuart Reed breathed out, and for a fleeting moment pain distorted his features before he regained control over them. Not so Mrs. Reed, whose cheeks were now streaked with tears.

Archer took a steadying breath. "Malcolm is missing in action," he said hoarsely, hating the words, hating what they implied. He couldn't help but to think that the MIA pronouncement was a sort of legalised washing of the hands. On Earth, in the past, governments had failed to follow up on intelligence that might have led to finding soldiers missing in action. Here in space... how could they hope to ever gain any insight in what had happened to Malcolm once Enterprise had left?

"Would you kindly explain yourself, Captain? What exactly has happened to my son?"

Stuart Reed's voice was cold and cutting now, a hint of animosity sharpening his accent. Archer forced himself to hold the man's piercing gaze.

"Malcolm was testing some upgrades on a shuttlepod when the vessel disappeared behind what we think is a cloaking field."

"I trust you are trying to find him," Reed Senior said, reaching with one hand to his wife, who anchored herself to it.

"Sir..." Archer faltered. This was difficult enough without the fact that he didn't agree with Starfleet's decision to make Enterprise leave. He took another deep breath. "This happened four weeks ago. We have tried all we can to see past the cloaking field, but are not able to."

"Four weeks?" Mrs. Reed's strangled voice said.

Archer felt his stomach clench. He had postponed calling the Reeds because he wanted to have something definite to tell them, not just 'your son has disappeared'. Indeed, he had hoped there would be no need to call them at all; he had hoped the shuttle would reappear, or they would find a way to see through the cloaking field and find Malcolm. Now, though, he realised that waiting had been a mistake.

"By Starfleet regulations after four weeks a missing crewman is declared MIA," he continued, watching Stuart Reed's mouth tighten. "I am sorry," he concluded.

There was a moment of silence broken by a sob, which went straight to Archer's heart.

"You are _sorry_?" Mr. Reed eventually repeated, finding his voice. "Does that mean that Starfleet is abandoning Malcolm to whatever fate has befallen him? Are we supposed to accept this, and spend the rest of our lives wondering if our son is dead or lost somewhere in the universe?"

Yes, that was exactly it.

"Sir, Ma'am..." Archer began. As he said the next words, Forrest's voice echoed in his mind. "Unfortunately a man cannot survive in a shuttlepod for more than fifteen or twenty days before running out of oxygen," he said, lowering his eyes, unable to hold the blue-grey gaze, so painfully familiar, which bore into him. "And Lieutenant Reed disappeared a month ago." With an act of willpower he looked up again: he would not shy away from the rightful emotions Malcolm's parents felt. "Malcolm is presumably dead, and Starfleet is ordering Enterprise to continue on her mission."

Stuart Reed straightened his shoulders, which had sagged under the burden of the news. "That is despicable," he spat out. "You don't know for certain that Malcolm is dead! The life of a man is surely more important than a mission of exploration!"

Archer swallowed past a painful lump in his throat. "Sir, our current scientific advancement does not allow us to penetrate that cloaking field. We asked the Vulcans for help, but they can't see through it either. Much as it pains us, we are forced to give up. I can only repeat what I already told you; Starfleet regulations state that after four weeks..."

"Yes, I understand," Reed Senior cut him off. Pain and anger warred for prime position on his face. But a proud expression was what won in the end. "My son chose this life well aware of its potential dangers, Captain." With bitter sarcasm he added, "Although he probably didn't think being abandoned was one of them."

Archer felt another stab through his heart. He couldn't stand knowing that Malcolm's parents thought he was lightheatedly turning his back on their son.

"Mr. and Mrs. Reed, I do care for my crew, and I would give my right hand, risk my own life to bring Malcolm back, if only I knew how to." A hint of coldness had entered his voice and he bit his lip. "Unfortunately I don't. And I must obey my orders. As a military man I'm sure you understand that."

Reed Senior clenched his jaw and briefly averted his gaze in a familiar mannerism. "Yes. I do understand that," he said quietly. "I only hope my son _is_ dead, Captain," he added. "For your sake, as well as for his own."

There were a few more words of condolences and farewell; then the monitor went black.

Archer's shoulders sagged. He couldn't quite agree with Mr. Reed. If Malcolm was alive, he could still hope that through some miracle they would get him back. What he really prayed for, rather, was that wherever he was, Malcolm was not suffering.

_Two months later_

"Quickly, Malcolm, follow me!" The voice had an edge of fear.

Malcolm turned in surprise to the sound, just as Reeba rounded the corner. "What's wrong?" he enquired as, uncharacteristically, she took him by an arm, physically urging him to go with her. He and Zen were at the back of the house – the only place where he ventured to be in the open air – and this place had always been safe.

Reeba's hurried gaze fell on the bow and arrows Malcolm was in the middle of making for Zen, and her eyes grew wide. She broke off her momentum to mutter something tense in her language. The boy reacted like a bolt of lightning, picking things up and starting to shove them inside a compost container.

Breaking free from the woman's grip, Malcolm grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and made her turn to face him. "Reeba, what's going on?" he asked directly.

"Surprise inspection."

Malcolm frowned. "If it's a _surprise_ inspection, how do you know about it?" Up to now he hadn't had any problems hiding from the Elk. Because of the fact that Reeba had always been collaborative, they left her in relative peace, coming to the house only a couple of times a month for perfunctory checks, which were never very thorough.

Sounds of scuttling announced someone else approaching. Malcolm tensed, but the person who rounded the corner was a familiar face, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he recognised the doctor who had treated him. The man shot him an unreadable look; then called to Zen, who ran obediently to him.

"He told me," Reeba said, jerking her chin to indicate the doctor. "On his way here he saw a group of Elk; he suspected something and spied on them."

Malcolm almost rolled his eyes. Definitely not a very intelligent species, to plan a surprise inspection on the day the doctor was due to come. He couldn't bring himself to be very worried about them. Reeba's breathing, however, got panicked.

"Quickly, they'll be here soon." She wriggled out of Malcolm's hands and pushed him towards a shack at the back of the yard, where she kept odds and ends, and her gardening tools. Fear added a roughness that was alien to her usually gentle ways. Malcolm stumbled under the force of her urgency and silently cursed this planet, where despite his recovery he was getting weaker, rather than stronger. He hated not to feel in top shape, just as he hated to hide like a coward, knowing that if he was found he wouldn't be the only one to pay. This wasn't how he was used to being, to doing things. How had he got to this point?

Reeba marched into the wooden shed and moved some rakes and other tools she kept neatly lined up against the far wall. Her movements were quick and resolute, if a bit frantic. Then she lifted what looked like a metal staff hanging on hooks and pulled one of the planks, and Malcolm saw that it was part of a small, hidden door; it opened, revealing a narrow enclosure, a sort of double bottom where he could see what looked like bags of earth. Malcolm frowned. She had never asked him to hide in the closet before. In the past weeks he had eluded the Elk simply by running off into the wood, for the dumbos came right through the front door, giving him all the time to disappear through the back. It had been ridiculously easy. That's why ultimately he had had decided to remain. What in the bloody hell had changed?

"Why can't I...?"

"Please, Malcolm," Reeba cut him off in a pleading voice that held more than a note of alarm.

The look in the blue-green eyes went right to Malcolm's heart; a heart that – he reproached himself – was becoming a bit too soft. He bit back the objections that were on the tip of his tongue and stepped inside the restricted space, clenching his jaw against the unease. Turning to face her, he barely had the time to catch the grateful look she cast him before the door was shut and locked, and he found himself alone in the dark and damp niche. There were narrow gaps between the planks, and he watched her replace the staff and gardening tools in front of the secret door; then she left the shed, closing its door without another word.

Brilliant. And now what?

The answer came not half a minute later, and Malcolm finally realised why running into the wood wouldn't have been an option this time. He could only rely on his hearing, but it sounded like the Elk had taken a crash course in strategy and closed in on the house from all sides this time, obviously to prevent anyone from leaving undetected.

He could hear from the tones of their voices that they meant business. Questions were barked-out, and in stark contrast came Reeba's meek replies. Voices approached and retreated: the Elk were quite clearly searching the house and garden. Malcolm pursed his lips, frustration finally giving way to worry. He wished he could understand the alien language to know exactly what was going on. Could they suspect about him? And if yes, what could have alerted them? Suddenly there was also Zen's voice, hostility clear in it. Cursing a silent blue streak, Malcolm fervently hoped the boy would not do anything rash. This was not the moment to try out the defence moves he had taught him, or – God forbid – do target throwing with his knife.

Minutes ticked by, agonisingly slow, until all of a sudden the shed's door was flung open, and a thickset figure appeared in the door frame. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, peering through the planks. He could not make out his features, for the light was behind him. The figure advanced slowly, looking carefully around, and now his face became visible: its complexion was different from Reeba's and the doctor's, more reddish. His eyes were set wide apart, and under them was a mobile protrusion that looked more like a short trunk than a nose. What struck Malcolm more, though, was this person's expression: leaden and flat, it held none of the sensitivity and gentleness that came through those of the three Tfu he knew.

With ill grace – indeed with deliberate carelessness – the Elk shoved things around as he conducted his search, and Malcolm held his breath. His hiding place was fairly well concealed, but for all he knew this species might have a heightened sense of smell like the Vulcans and become alerted by his scent. That trunk-like protuberance, after all, seemed like it might be quite apt at sniffing things out.

Sudden movement behind the Elk caught Malcolm's eye. Zen. The boy appeared at the door and took a deliberate step inside. A hard expression was on his face as he observed the searching man. The Elk turned, barking something out to him, but the boy didn't budge, and Malcolm felt adrenaline speed through his veins, in anticipation of trouble. The Elk, however, had turned back to his task, ignoring the child. Like a bloodhound on a trail, he came up to the planks behind which Malcolm was hidden. In his narrow enclosure, indeed barely big enough for a person to stand in, Malcolm flattened with his back against the far wall, which wasn't very _far_ at all. The Elk was now close enough for Malcolm to hear his breathing and see the white of his eyes as the man inspected the tools placed in front of the concealed door. He began to move some of them around and Malcolm tensed, his mind frantically wondering what he should do if he was found. He'd fight the man, no doubt about it, even though in his condition he had no illusions of overpowering him; but should he even succeed, then what? This Elk was only one of how many? He could not fight them all.

It was hot and damp in the small niche; sweat trickled down the side of Malcolm's face but he stood frozen, unblinkingly watching the man barely a meter and a half from him. He noticed that stripes – similar to the ones on the doctor's forehead – were also on this person's brow. Probably the only thing these people could boast to have in common with the Tfu, he mulled grimly.

Eyes darting around, the Elk removed a couple of rakes, and Malcolm's heart missed a beat. It missed another one when a loud noise made the man turn abruptly. Pots that had been neatly lined up on a shelf came rolling off it and crashing down, and even though the man ducked, he could not avoid being hit by a few of them.

Malcolm had been too busy watching the Elk to see what had caused the fall, but it wasn't difficult to imagine. Pots didn't go flying off a shelf of their own, and only one other person was in the room. Zen stood defiantly one meter inside the door, a stick in his hands, his expression one of silent challenge.

_Get away_, Malcolm silently urged.

The Elk slowly brushed pieces of broken pot off his shoulders. Then, with a wicked laugh, one that didn't bode for anything good, he started unhurriedly towards the boy.

_Get away, damn it!_

But Zen stood his ground, taking, in fact, one of the stances Malcolm had taught him, and Malcolm's heart sank as he watched helplessly as the scene unfolded. Teaching Zen hand-to-hand had been little more than a game... But no, what an idiot he was! He ought to have known that it was no game for this child. He _had_ known, deep down; but he had told himself that the boy wasn't actually going to put his teachings into practice. Guilt made his chest constrict: he had known, but he had been _that _desperate to put his hands on his communicator.

Well, now he couldn't allow…

Instinctively Malcolm started to push on the planks, but a small part of him was still rational, and he stopped. What was he thinking! If the Elk found him here in this house, the punishment for the woman and child would be harsh. Anyway he looked at it, there was nothing he could do to help Reeba and Zen; and if they ended up suffering it would be because of him. Malcolm felt a stabbing pain go right through his heart. A tremor was running through his body, his pulse was getting wild and so was his breathing, threatening to betray him; but the Elk was too busy to pay any attention to any noises around him. Suddenly springing into action, he had thrown a kick at Zen, who nimbly eluded it and stepped back out into the yard. With a roar, the man followed the boy, slamming the door closed after him, and both of them disappeared from view.

Heart thumping loudly in his chest, Malcolm let out a muttered curse as he banged his fists against the planks: he felt like a trapped animal. Leaning his forehead on them, he scrunched his eyes shut. He, the Armoury Officer of a starship, hiding in a bloody hole while a child took on that thug to protect him! How could he stand that? A high-pitched cry followed by Reeba's frantic voice was the proverbial last straw, and he knew there and then that he couldn't. Filling his lungs with air, he held it in and pushed hard on the hidden door, determined to do what he had to, come what may; but it didn't budge. He swore out loud and pushed again with all his might, but the wood was thick and the door firmly locked by the staff; and as if that weren't enough, there wasn't enough room to manoeuvre. Last but not least there was the bloody fact that his strength, day after day, had been trickling out of him. Malcolm shoved against the planks with his shoulder, and kicked at them angrily, and banged his fists against them, but nothing helped.

Generations of Reed had been taught to hold everything in, but shame, guilt and frustration were beginning to sting behind his eyes. He should have died in the crash-landing, or in the aftermath of it. His survival was beginning to look like a big joke. Except that this was no joke.

Zen shouted something in anger; Reeba was sobbing, and Malcolm could not stand it any longer. He put his hands over his ears and pressed hard, leaning back against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut to fight back those tears that no Reed should let fall.

--

He had slid down to the ground, back against the wall, forehead on his raised knees, which in the narrow enclosure were pressed againt his chest, arms hugging them - hugging himself tight, to keep the world, this world out. Here, where nobody could see him, where no stern voice would admonish him – other than in the darkest recess of his mind – he had caved in and let the bitterness spill out. It had been a silent affair, and in the end it had brought no relief.

Time had passed, sliding over him like water in a brook, leaving no trace. He didn't know how much time had passed. He was too numb, and cold, and miserable. He should have been left to die. How long before he would die anyway?

Sounds of footsteps and of things being shifted. Malcolm slowly raised his head to the door of his prison being opened. No light came through, which meant it was dark outside; which meant he had been locked away for at least six hours.

Fighting his cramped muscles and his dispiritedness, he pushed wobblingly to his feet. Reeba was there and he squinted, trying to scan her face, too damn scared of what he might read on it; suddenly this woman who had jeopardized so much to save him meant something to him. But her head was bent forward, and her hair screened her expression from view.

"Are you ok?" he managed hoarsely.

"Yes," she replied, eyes still on the floor.

"What did they want?"

Her brow creased. "They found your vessel, on the other side of the wood. They noticed I've been getting more supplies recently… they suspected the pilot might have survived and found shelter. This is the only house for miles."

There was another question to ask; Malcolm tensed. "Zen?" In the long pause that followed, he held his breath.

"He's _fine_," she eventually replied, stressing the word a little.

Oh. _That_ fine. _His_ fine.

"Is he hurt?" Malcolm had to know; the weight on his heart was much too heavy.

"Only in his pride."

Malcolm let out his breath slowly, feeling the adrenaline leave his system and the resulting weariness setting in. They stood for a moment in silence. Finally he mustered the energy to move and step out of the enclosure, and also the courage to reach a tentative hand and lift Reeba's chin. She didn't oppose him, but her gaze would not come up to meet his. It was clear why: his eyes, used to the darkness, went wide as he took in her bruises.

He wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say. Nothing he could say would make any difference and even a simple 'sorry' would only make him feel worse, underlining his responsibility in what had happened. His job was to protect people and he had failed. Worse, actually: he had placed - was placing these people at risk.

"Reeba…" he mumbled. She finally looked up, and the next moment he had pulled her into his arms, enveloped her in his embrace, as if this alone could make up for it, and shield her from further harm. She burrowed into it, opposing no resistance. "I must go away," he breathed into her hair. "I will not have you and--"

He could not finish. Soft lips smothered the rest. Malcolm drew back in surprise, but a hand reached with gentle determination for the nape of his neck, pulling him down, and eventually he closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the kiss, to its healing properties, losing himself in it. He let it melt away the hurt and despair, the worry and shame, until his heart was beating a loud counterpoint to hers. He wanted so much to forget… Let him forget… the fire, the crash-landing, the sense of desertion, the despair… Let him…

Damn it!

Eyes flashing open in sudden realisation, he broke the kiss.

What the hell was he doing, acting like a bloody sailor? For Enterprise _would_ come for him eventually; and he would go away never to return. He had no right... it was guilt and weakness that had made him…

As he pushed her gently away Malcolm met Reeba's puzzled eyes. "This isn't right," he said distressingly, all the more so because his heart was giving him hell. "One day I will leave. My ship will come for me." Even as he said it, a little voice told him it was not likely, but he silenced it.

A sad smile curved Reeba's mouth and for the first time since he had known her he saw tears spill out of her expressive eyes and trickle down her cheeks. "After you leave, I will never have this any more," she choked out. She searched his face; then stood on her tiptoes and pulled him down for another, hungrier kiss. Her tears wet his face and he felt a shiver travel down his spine.

This-was-not-right-this-was-not-right-this-was-not-right. He would not kiss a woman to make her experience feelings she wasn't allowed to have in this crooked world of hers; he would not kiss a woman to forget his own troubles, knowing that sooner or later he'd… He would not... NOT...

Forcefully breaking the kiss once more, Malcolm pulled Reeba into a close hug so as to avoid having to look into her eyes, feeling more confused than he had in all his life.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

Zen was lying face-down on his mat when, some time later, Malcolm went into their room; it was _their_ room now, for not long after he had begun to feel better his mat had been moved into it, on the grounds that it was where it had been in the first place. Although he had been glad to move out of the living room, Malcolm hadn't been looking forward to sharing living quarters with someone, especially a child; but, undoubtedly because he had grown up alone, Zen was no ordinary child, having none of the worse traits that could characterise some of his Earth peers: he was neither noisy nor nosy. In fact he was surprisingly discreet, or perhaps bright enough to understand that adults needed their personal space. And in the end, against his own will, Malcolm had got close to the boy.

The bright and slightly reddish light of this planet's moon was filtering through the window, bathing the room in an eerie light. Stopping just inside and closing the door behind him, Malcolm leaned back against it and took a moment to study the immobile form. He could tell the boy wasn't sleeping.

It suddenly struck him that it was like watching a scene from the past, like looking at himself as a child. Come to think of it, it wasn't only because of his thin frame that Zen reminded him of himself: his stubbornness, his reserved and proud nature was very much like his own. As was this sullenness. How many times as a child had he thrown himself face down on his bed, to sulk on something, to smother his hurt on his pillow, not even stirring when his mother had come to him?

Malcolm winced, wondering what to do. If this child was anything like he had been at his age, he would ache to be comforted yet would not make the first step. He had been there: he knew. But comforting people wasn't his strong suit, a part of him suggested - the part that only wanted to collapse on his mat; God knew he was drained.

He really longed for an uninterrupted night of preferably dreamless sleep; and in the morning he would leave. He had to, even if his heart kept trying to make up excuses for staying. Three months in this house and he had almost got accustomed to the idea that this was his life now, beside this woman and child. But after tonight he was afraid to stay, afraid of what could happen to these people because of him; afraid of what despair might plant into his heart.

Pushing off the door, Malcolm began to make his quiet way to his mat. Perhaps he too would drop face down on it, and brood a little. Reeba had been hurt by his behaviour, and there was an ache in his chest he didn't want to acknowledge, for it would make things much more complicated.

As he tiptoed past Zen's mat, he caught the boy casting a surreptitious look his way; then bury his head back inside his raised arms. Malcolm stopped and closed his eyes, dropping his chin on his chest. Damn it, but he had been there…

He cleared his throat. "You ok?"

The reply, when it finally came, was spoken in a voice that belied its meaning.

"Sure."

Heaving a patient breath, Malcolm turned to him. "Sure sure?"

Zen lifted his head. "I wasn't good enough."

_Now we're getting somewhere._ "What do you mean?" Malcolm asked with quiet directness.

Zen's face had dropped down again, and the answer was barely audible. "I could do nothing to protect her; all you taught me was in vain."

Malcolm grimaced. He cast a wistful look at his mat; then, with another sigh, went to sit near the boy. "Look, Zen; you saved my life," he said very seriously. "And that probably saved also your life, and that of your mother. If that Elk had found me…"

It wasn't an exaggeration either. Without the boy's timely intervention things could have ended up much worse, for all of them.

Zen rolled slowly over and his eyes narrowed, as if to make sure Malcolm wasn't mollifying him. "But he shoved me aside," he said after a moment, anger clearly simmering. "And I could not stop him from hitting her." He frowned. "You must teach me better."

Not that again.

Malcolm passed a hand over his weary face. "That man was bigger and stronger than you. No matter how much I teach you, until you grow up you cannot expect to…"

The boy rolled off the mat, cutting him off, and scuttled to the window, his back to the room, to _him_. Malcolm watched the thin silhouette, wondering if he should tell him now that he would be leaving. He knew it would be hard for both of them, but it felt like a deception to keep it from him. Pushing to his feet, Malcolm went to stand behind him.

"Zen, listen --"

But the boy cut him off once again, suddenly swivelling to face him. "I will never be good enough," he said bitterly, blinking back tears of frustration. "I was born too weak, and will never be as strong as I need to."

Malcolm's confession died in his throat. His arms fell on the boy's shoulders, surprised at the unexpected emotion that was spreading within him, that fatherly instinct he had thought was so alien to him.

"One does not need to be tall and burly to be considered strong," he said firmly, thinking of how as a child he would have been grateful if someone had told him that. Putting a knee on the floor, he tightened the grip on the boy's shoulders as he sought and captured his eyes. "Strength of character is more important: you have that already, and it's something much harder to achieve than weight and muscles. In time you'll develop some of those too, don't worry."

Zen blinked some more; then flung his arms around Malcolm, clinging to him for dear life. "I like you, Malcolm Reed," he mumbled into his shoulder.

For the second time that evening Malcolm found his arms closing around someone. He shut his eyes, feeling even more confused and torn, aware that his resolve to leave was softening under the warmth of the small body against him.

* * *

Well, he was finally here. For weeks he had taken long detours to avoid even passing in front of Malcolm's quarters, but here he was now.

Trip stood in the middle of the room, perfectly still – something Malcolm had always teasingly told him that he was incapable of doing. But now, as the place retrieved, from the corner of his mind where he had pushed them, memories that made his heart ache, Trip found he couldn't move, for fear that they would vanish.

He had kept pain well-locked in his heart all this time, but at long last he opened the gate to it, allowing it to escape from the cage, feeling it swell and rise, until he was sure it would finally find an outlet. But in fact tears would not come. He wasn't ashamed of crying, had never been; the strength of a man was not measured on things like that, as far as he was concerned. But stronger than the pain in his chest was the anger, and like a dam too high it wouldn't let the water overflow.

Anger had turned him sour, with one person in particular, and that bothered him, for he knew it wasn't fair. Having lost a friend, it would have been good to let this other one take care of him; but a resentful part of him would not allow that. It was irrational, for deep down he knew that Archer had been _ordered_ to leave; but he had also been the man who had given the order to set a new course, and Trip could not help feeling that his best friend, his friend Jon, his Captain, the man he looked up to, had let him down when he had left one of their own behind. There had been a time when, after shifts, Trip had sought Archer's company. Now he sought to avoid it, confused by his own feelings towards the man.

Turning slowly around, Trip let his eyes travel over the Spartan surroundings. With the excuse that Enterprise was too far from Earth, that they could not send Malcolm's belongings home, no one had touched anything; things were still as Malcolm had left them. It was as if the man was still here.

The bed neatly made; a small picture of some marine landscape hanging on the wall - Trip had always wanted to ask Malcolm about it, and never had. No family portraits. Malcolm had once told him that he didn't need to put anyone on display to remember them. That, in fact, had been so very Malcolm-like. The man had never put his feelings in a show-case; they had not been for everybody to see. Trip felt flattered that his friend had thought enough of him to let him get a glimpse of them, now and then.

Books on a shelf. Yes, Malcolm could probably survive without oxygen but not without his books.

_Without oxygen_…

Trip winced. Had Malcolm died of suffocation? Was his lifeless body, slumped on the shuttlepod's floor, wandering without peace in the frozen lands of the universe?

Swallowing hard, he chased the disturbing image away and walked to the desk. A padd. was on it, carefully placed in the upper right corner. He sat down and picked it up, switching it on. Malcolm's latest research on EM fields… Schematics to modify and improve the weapons' systems… He scrolled down.

_Notes to self. 1- Talk to Captain Archer about new security protocols. _

Trip bit his lip. Always some new security protocols. They had run into so many bad guys since leaving space dock that Malcolm had confessed to him he was getting more paranoid by the day.

_2- Get Trip to see the importance of being able to instantly divert more power to the shields from tactical. Discuss it one of these evenings over a beer or two._

Only one or two? Trip gave a mirthless huff. More often than not the beers had been more than that, and they had ended up with a headache. But actually a little drinking would do more than that for Malcolm, bringing out a humorous side of him that was quite enjoyable. He missed that – the company, the dry wit. Now Trip spent his evenings alone. You can't replace a friend as you replace an object you have lost, just by getting a new one.

_Lost…_

Was Malcolm dead or just _lost_? That was what drove Trip nuts, had robbed him of his peace, and made him furious. He could have accepted his friend's death, but not this damn huge question mark. Because for all they knew Malcolm may be still somewhere waiting for them to come and rescue him…

Anguish snaked through him. How could the Captain have turned his back on one of them, without knowing what had actually happened to the man? That was not the Jon Archer he--

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he jerked his head to it in surprise. Speak of the devil.

"I had to check with internal sensors to find you," Archer said quietly, coming guardedly inside. He glanced briefly around, looking uncomfortable.

"Is there a problem?" Trip asked flatly.

Archer heaved a breath. "You tell me, Trip."

There was a long silence, while Trip gathered his thoughts. He needed to make a clean breast of things, but knew he should count to ten, measure his words. Before he could utter a sound, though, Archer spoke again.

"Sitting here will only make it worse," he murmured.

"At least I remember him," Trip replied out of his teeth, biting his tongue not to add 'the man you were so ready to forget' - so much for his resolution to measure his words.

"There was nothing I could do," Archer said without animosity as he pinned him with a steady gaze. "I had hoped you knew and trusted me enough not to doubt that."

"All I know," Trip countered tautly, "Is that a man – a friend – has been left behind in order to resume a mission of _exploration_." He spat out the word, which in his mind had taken on a negative connotation. "Dammit, Captain, you should have--"

"Should have what?" Archer cut him off in a slightly harder tone of voice. "Defied my orders? The last person who'd have wanted that would be Malcolm."

"Malcolm would also be the last person who'd have left one of us behind," Trip said darkly. "You should have made those damn chair warmers understand that we needed more time."

Archer heaved another deep breath. "Trip, I _tried_. And – trust me – I would have done battle if I'd had a strand of hope to get past that cloaking field. But you know as well as I do that nothing we could think of worked, and Starfleet cannot keep their only Warp-5 ship and her crew stalled indefinitely." He looked around the room again, this time letting his eyes linger on the objects inside. "We all signed onto this mission well aware of the risks involved; all the more so Malcolm, because of the nature of his job."

Trip passed a tired hand over his eyes. The reasoning was right, in a logical way. But heart and logic do not often agree. Getting up, he took a step towards Archer. "What if he isn't dead? What if he's hurt, or has been captured by hostile aliens?" he asked tautly.

The green eyes grew pained; then scrunched closed. "I know," Archer breathed out.

And then it was all etched on the man's face, all that Enterprise's Captain could not openly admit - not to his crew, not to Trip, perhaps not even to himself: that the order to leave _had _been wrong; that, no matter how conscious of their mission's inherent risks they all were, it was morally unacceptable to abandon a man to his destiny, without even knowing what that destiny might be.

Trip bit his lip. He should have known. He _had_ known. "Capt'n, I'm sorry," he mumbled, wincing. "I didn't mean to say that you were responsible for..."

"You did mean it, Trip," Archer said firmly, reopening his eyes. They were deeply troubled, yet still the eyes of a Captain, of the man in command. "And I am responsible. No matter what Starfleet or anyone else says. That's what makes it so damn hard."

His voice cracked on the last words and Trip felt compassion melt the icy knot in his chest. "Need a friend?" he croaked out, finally feeling his eyes brim over.

Archer pursed his lips. "I think I could use one," he said quietly. "What about you?"

Trip gave him a lopsided smirk. "Yeah."

They sat in the Lieutenant's room, not needing many words. Trip eventually dug out a couple of bottles from Malcolm's not-so-secret stash, and they let the memories wash over them, not minding if it sharpened the edges of their pain, for they knew that – unfortunately – time sooner or later would blunt them again.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

§10§

They were small and plain enough not to arouse any suspicion if they were ever found. Malcolm looked at the two pips in the cup of his hand, and pursed his lips. Two – like the two people who had been his family over the past three months. Valuable to him though valued little – like this woman and child who had risked so much to help a perfect stranger. Difficult to part from – yes, it was as difficult to part from these two pips, which signified so much to him, as from Reeba and Zen. But in all likelihood he would not need the former any more, nor see the latter.

Malcolm crouched silently near Zen's mat and let the two pips slide off his hand onto a low stool that acted as a bedside table. He let his eyes linger a moment on the boy's face, peaceful in sleep, feeling guilt eat at him for sneaking away without saying good-bye. But he knew he probably wouldn't be able to look into Zen's eyes and say the words. Or Reeba's eyes. Pain stabbed his heart and he clenched his jaw against it. He hoped this child and his mother would understand and forgive him, and accept the small gift of his pips as something to remember him by.

Glancing up towards the window, Malcolm pushed to his feet and straightened his shoulders. It was very early morning and still dark outside, just what he needed to get away from the house without being detected.

With the stealth born of his training he opened the window and climbed out, letting himself drop to the ground. He landed in a crouch with a soft thump that didn't carry far. The jump had only been some one and a half meters, but he had to pause a moment to let the dizziness pass, hands on the ground to stabilize himself.

He was travelling light: he had taken nothing with him other than his – albeit unserviceable – communicator, a blanket and a kitchen knife. Well, what else would he need? He had no illusions to last long out in the open on this planet – survival training notwithstanding. Lighting a fire would be out of the question: too risky. But it wouldn't be the cold to kill him, temperatures were pretty mild; no… Without a fire he would have to survive on the few berries and wild fruits Zen had taught him to recognise, and he doubted there would be enough nourishment in those to keep him alive for long.

Chasing these grim thoughts aside, Malcolm slowly rose to his feet. Time to leave and face his fate. Quietly skirting the side of the house, he rounded the corner, crossed the back yard, and disappeared into the wood, without turning to cast that last, difficult glance at the place that had begun to feel like home.

He wasn't aimless: he had wandered this wood several times, because it was the only outdoor place where he had felt truly safe. It was thick, with a lot of underbrush, and deserted; he had used it as a hiding place when the Elk had come for their inspections, but also taken a few walks in it, alone and with Zen. During those outings he had made a point of noticing a few things, in case he ever had to leave his haven. Well, now that time had come.

There was a brook a few miles to the west; he should trace it back and up the foot of the mountain. With a bit of luck there might be caves a little higher up. Malcolm focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on negotiating the rough terrain; he told himself that that needed his full concentration, but the truth was he wanted to keep his mind off other things. He had a penchant for seeing the glass half empty, and now it seemed as dry as a desert; although he doubted even Trip would find cause for optimism in his position.

Trip and Enterprise were all that filled his thoughts, when that night he stretched out under the stars, having found no cave to protect him. He had long pushed the starship to the back of his mind, to dull the pain of knowing that he would not see it again. When was the last time he had actually, actively thought of it, and _seen_ the crew's faces so vividly? Malcolm pulled the blanket up to his chin, more for comfort than for necessity.

He gazed at the unfamiliar constellations, still such a beautiful sight even under the circumstances. Where was Enterprise now, in that black sea above him? _Why_ had they not found him? The energy discharges that had hit his pod had been no joke: they should have seen them, damn it! And hadn't they seen the planet suddenly de-cloak? Hadn't they tracked his descent vector and landing coordinates?

Malcolm turned abruptly onto his side, and brought his knees closer to his chest. Enough of searching the skies; enough of asking himself pointless questions. He had already been through that so many times, and what had he gained? Only that he had felt something die within him, a little more every time. Why torture himself?

Well, he knew why. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was bloody well furious that it should happen just when he had found his place in life. He missed Enterprise; missed the Armoury with its men and women, _his _men and women. He missed his friends, his Captain; missed T'Pol's Vulcan ways. Hell, he even missed Phlox. Most of all he missed the Southern drawl of a certain Engineer who had refused to be discouraged by his introvert nature, and had dragged him along on the path of gregariousness. He still had to go a long way on it; still needed guidance.

Bloody hell, Trip, where are you?

_A week later_

"There is a cluster of white dwarves, some half a light year away." T'Pol touched a slender finger to the image on the display of the situation room's table; then looked up.

Her eyes appeared expectant; possibly – for her – also a little troubled, but Archer ignored that, nodding. "Set a course, Travis," he said, feigning an interest he did not feel.

"Captain, those white dwarves are not liable to be any different from the ones Enterprise already encountered in the past," a mildly cautious voice objected.

Archer schooled his features. After his evening with Trip in Malcolm's quarters he had brought the ship back to the spot where Malcolm had disappeared and was leading them in circles, and they all knew it. Literally: in wider and wider circles around the place where the pod had vanished. He had asked T'Pol not to stop working at the mystery of that cloaking field, studying the data she had collected; and in the meantime he had ordered Enterprise on a circular course that would take them very slowly and gradually away from the X spot.

He had been buying time; they all knew it. They all knew that he didn't give a damn about today's white dwarves or yesterday's nebula; but today, for the first time, someone was questioning his behaviour, and that someone was T'Pol. He suspected she was beginning to doubt his sanity; or perhaps she had come to the conclusion that there was no way she could pierce that cloaking field and was trying to find a way to tell him that it was finally time they went on their way for good.

"They are… larger than the ones we have already studied," Archer said, his eyes darting briefly to the other officers around the situation table. Trip was leaning with both hands on it, carefully avoiding his gaze; Travis had lifted his eyebrows in mild amusement – bless his sunny disposition; Hoshi was nodding; and Müller… well, the man would be all for exploring something as innocuous as a group of white dwarves: anything, as long as it didn't involve having to make first contact.

T'Pol tilted her head questioningly, cocking a delicate eyebrow.

Before her logic could give another blow to his already deflated hope, though, Archer repeated, "Set a course, Travis," adding for the rest of his senior staff, "I'll be in my ready room."

Deliberately taking the route around the table that would avoid his crossing T'Pol's path, Archer ran up the few steps and pressed the button that would open the doors to his refuge. He quickly walked inside, wondering how much longer he could escape T'Pol's reservations.

"Good morning, Captain."

A man was standing in the middle of the room and Archer froze. But actually, as he recovered from his surprise, his blood began to boil.

"Daniels! If you have something to do with my Armoury Officer's disappearance, I swear to you, I will…"

"I do not, Captain, I assure you," Daniels hurried to say, raising pacifying hands. "In fact, I'm here to help you get him back."

The man smiled that innocent smile of his, and Archer narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Tell me all you know about it," he ordered though gritted teeth, even as the hope that was suddenly being rekindled in him gave him a wild impulse to hug his former steward.

"Lieutenant Reed is on a planet called Elkan'Tfuria."

"A _planet_? Where is it?"

"Behind the cloaking field."

Archer couldn't keep his jaw from dropping. The field had been a large one, true, but a whole planet…

Daniels tilted his head. "The Elk – Elkan'Tfuria's more numerous, dominant species – are extremely xenophobic," he explained. "They have enslaved the Tfu – the second, more intelligent species – and had them develop a huge cloaking field to keep the planet hidden. Any vessel that inadvertently crosses it is incapacitated by automated bolts of energy which, depending on the vessel's size and shielding, may just knock its systems out or outright destroy it."

Archer felt his spirits drop into his boots. "What about Malcolm's shuttlepod?" he asked tightly.

Daniels grimaced. "The Lieutenant made a rather rough landing."

"Is he...?"

"He's fine," his former steward said, although he rushed to add, "Sort of."

"Dammit, Daniels, stop speaking in riddles!" Archer hissed. He much preferred when the man had just brought him scrambled eggs in the morning.

Daniels's hands came up again. "Captain, Lieutenant Reed was injured, but he recovered. The biggest threat for him at the moment is that his physiology is not exactly thriving on that planet."

Breaking his immobility for the first time, Archer took a step forward. "Why the hell are you telling me this, _now_?"

To his credit, Daniels looked sympathetic. "It took me a while to convince my superiors that we should help you retrieve the Lieutenant." He sighed. "I can't tell you too much, Captain but… you'll have to… well, in a future that is not too far you'll be much better off with Malcolm Reed beside you as Armoury Officer."

Archer frowned, pausing a moment to mull the mysterious words. "Are you even allowed to change things like that?" he eventually enquired, worry tingeing his voice. "I thought screwing with events as they happen was forbidden." He wanted to bring Malcolm home, but also wanted to make sure that meddling with things wouldn't cause some universal catastrophe.

"Not ordinarily," Daniels admitted a bit hesitantly. Recovering his self-confidence, he added, "But – trust me, Captain – I wouldn't help you if I couldn't. And you'll be grateful that I did: you'll want to have Reed with you when the time comes."

Archer felt a shiver run down his spine, but forced himself to focus on the present. "I want to have Reed with me _now_," he said, feeling his facial muscles harden. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

Daniels smiled disarmingly. "Shall we ask your helmsman to change course?" He made a courteous gesture with his hand. "After you, Captain."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

§ 11 §

Reaching out a hand to the nearest tree, Malcolm dropped his chin forward and passed a hand over his face, feeling his week-long beard before letting his palm rest over his closed eyes. He'd had a latent headache for the past couple of days, and it was beginning to be a bit too much of a pain – no pun intended.

It could be his allergies – God only knew when his last shot ought to have been.

Or… or perhaps he was coming down with something. He let out a sarcastic huff. He wouldn't be surprised: his immune system must be a wreck. So much the better; let him catch some fatal virus to end this farce of a life.

Pushing off again, Malcolm walked on, wondering if he had dreamt about those berry trees he thought he had seen yesterday in this part of the wood. Could his mind be starting to mix dream and reality?

A shiver ran down his spine. He really ought to quit washing in the cold water of the brook. What was the point in trying to keep a dignified appearance? It made no sense.

Doggedly, he kept dragging himself forward, but a few minutes later had to stop again, short of breath. He felt so bloody tired… Letting himself slide down to his haunches, he didn't bother suppressing a groan as he put out a hand to the ground to keep his balance. The trees had started dancing and didn't stop even when he found himself sitting on the ground.

Leaning back against a thick tree trunk, he closed his eyes against the disturbing sight, breathing heavily. So this was what his end would be like, how death would find him one of these days: slumped like a drunkard under a tree. What a lovely prospect. He had always thought he would go out with a bang, in some kind of glorious explosion, or in the heat of action. This slow extinguishing wasn't very appealing.

Fading away all alone.

Malcolm felt anguish grip him. He'd never had been one for company, but now… now the idea of dying alone was agony. No one would even know where to find him. No one would return him to his family. He would neither be given a resting place on Earth, by his family of blood, nor a torpedo casing by his Starship family, to be launched among the stars.

Swallowing past a painful lump, Malcolm gave himself a mental kick and straightened his shoulders. None of this wallowing in self pity: he was still a Reed and an officer; he would meet his fate like a man. And…

A thought struck him, spreading instant and soothing warmth through his chest.

…And he still had someone here; two people who had been like another family to him... Perhaps he could spend his last days closer to them. Watch them at least from a distance, undetected. He was good at that, and after all, no one would see him. And it would make him feel so very much less lonely…

* * *

"Commander, we'll need some positron-based beacons," Daniels said, looking at Trip with expectation.

"Yeah, I remember," Trip replied, still seeming a bit stunned at the turn of events. "You'd given the Captain instructions to build them some time ago." He turned to Archer. "I tried to make those work but--" He didn't finish, interrupted by Daniels.

"Oh, no: those would never penetrate a cloaking field of this magnitude and density," the man said with the dismissive gesture.

T'Pol tilted her head and raised I-told-you-so eyebrows but had the decency not to speak. Or maybe Trip's glare was enough to discourage even her.

"In a moment I will go with you to Engineering, and show you how to build more powerful ones." Daniels turned to Müller. "Ensign, I need you to dig out Lieutenant Reed's research on EM containment fields."

"Crewman? I mean... Sir?" Müller stumbled over what he should call Archer's former steward. In the end he turned to Archer. "Captain, to do that I'd need to search the Lieutenant's quarters," he said, ill at ease. "He did most of his research at night, after shift."

"It's for a good cause," Archer reminded him.

"I think I can spare you that, Bernhard," Trip said. A smile appeared on his lips, piercing the tension, and Archer found himself thinking how right it looked on Trip's face.

"There was a padd. on Malcolm's desk, when we were there," Trip added quietly, his gaze shifting to Archer. "Among other things it has what Daniels is looking for."

Relief smoothed out Müller's frown.

"Excellent!" Daniels clapped his hands together. "I need to see if the Lieutenant's achievements can be stretched a little to protect the Shuttlepod you'll be using to reach Elkan'Tfuria."

Trip winced. "Elkan _what_?" he asked Hoshi on the side. The linguist shrugged absentmindedly, too busy listening to Daniels's words.

"Of course once this is over I won't be able to leave the EM protective shielding installed – I'm not allowed to give people in the past any legs up," the man was saying. "But it's the fastest way to get you down there." He smirked. "Hopefully in one piece." With a sigh he concluded, "And we can't waste too much time."

Archer bit his lip. He was almost forgetting that they didn't have Malcolm back _yet_. "Travis, you'll be piloting," he said firmly. "Müller, get together…"

"Captain."

T'Pol had not spoken a word since Daniels had made his theatrical entrance on the bridge. Her scepticism as to time travelling was well-known. All eyes turned to her now.

"If we are to believe Crewman Daniels, this mission appears to entail a considerable amount of risk," she said, her eyes shifting briefly to the man, before returning to Archer's. "The Elk are described as fiercely xenophobic, and the EM shielding might not, from what I understand, be enough to secure a safe landing."

"I'm sure I can make it work properly," Daniels reassured.

Straightening his shoulders, Archer watched the rest of his senior staff have much his same reaction and stiffen. "I'm not going to give up trying to bring Malcolm home because of the risks involved," he said, holding her gaze.

Daniels studied the Vulcan. "If you'll allow me, Captain… Your point, Subcommander?" he asked almost lightly. "I doubt that is what you meant."

"Indeed." She latched her hands behind her back. "I merely recommend that, to minimise the risks, only one person be sent on this rescue mission."

"But a larger party can find Malcolm faster," Archer objected, shooting a questioning look at Daniels.

This pulled his mouth in a lopsided smirk. "I will be able to give you virtually the exact coordinates of where Lieutenant Reed is," he said. "I think the Subcommander is right. One person will be sufficient to carry out this mission."

"Then I'll go," Archer said, without a second thought. He nodded to dismiss the assembled officers, but T'Pol spoke again.

"Starfleet rules forbid the Captain of a ship to leave it unaccompanied."

Archer scowled at her, but she didn't seem to notice or mind, adding, "I would be a more suitable choice."

"Capt'n…" Trip took a step towards him, not needing to say anything else; his voice and pleading blue eyes spoke plenty.

Archer pursed his lips. This was not an easy choice. The only life he was comfortable risking was his own, but he knew T'Pol would not let him get away with breaking Starfleet rules. T'Pol and Trip were equally competent officers, both equally capable of carrying out the mission. Both were friends, though if he was honest with himself, Trip's friendship was special to him. Both were indispensable.

But… perhaps he should look at the problem from a different perspective. Malcolm had spent more than three months on that planet; he was likely to be physically unwell, and probably psychologically frail: which of the two officers would be best suited to bring him home? Which would Malcolm be more comfortable with, in his condition? He owed Malcolm that. The answer was both difficult and too easy to find.

"Trip, get those positron-beacons together, and then get ready," he said hoarsely.

Trip's eyes sparkled as he nodded. The man looked as if he had just won the lottery, but watching him leave Archer hoped he had not, instead, condemned his best friend to an untimely demise.

* * *

The lauchbay doors opened and Shuttlepod One was on its way.

Trip concentrated on his instruments, trying to keep his mind off the fact that soon he'd be seeing a friend he had mourned as dead. It had taken him months, but in the end he'd given in, because he had not been able to deal with the anguish of wondering if Malcolm was still alive.

And instead…

He had strongly wanted to be the one going on this rescue mission, but now that he was here he felt anxiousness grip him, and not because of the dangers involved. The big question was: what would he find on that planet?

Trip looked up at the blackness ahead. Well, first he'd better find the thing itself.

Reaching for a switch on his control panel, he engaged the beacons Daniels had made him build: there was a shimmering, and the globe that had eluded them slowly appeared.

"Tucker to Enterprise," he paged. "I see it," he added, without waiting for a reply. "In about fifteen minutes I'll be crossing the cloaking field."

"Acknowledged," Archer's voice came back. "Good luck, Commander."

Archer had sounded confident but Trip read through him: it wasn't often that Jon called him _Commander_. "Don't worry, Capt'n," he said. "Before you know it, we'll both be back safely."

Back safely. Yes, he would bring Malcolm back safely, in one way or the other.

Daniels had told them precious little about Malcolm's time on Elkan… Elkan… Elkan-_whatever_. The damn man claimed he could not say too much, and that they were already lucky that he had been granted permission to help them bring Malcolm home. Phlox had insisted that he had to know what health problems the Lieutenant was experiencing in order to supply Trip with the needed meds, but Daniels had been very vague. Trip sighed. Well, the important thing was that Malcolm was alive, and that he'd bring him back.

Shifting his eyes briefly to the control panel, Trip saw that he was almost at the cloaking field's border. One of the things Daniels _had_ told them – though he had already figured that one out on his own – was that the field also acted as a communications barrier. Once he was on the other side, he'd be cut off from Enterprise.

As the critical moment approached, Trip cast a final glance at the EM shielding indicator – it showed full power – and allowed himself a tense smile: Malcolm's eyes were likely to jump out of their sockets when he saw that. The smile turned into a smirk when he remembered that in fact Daniels had made him promise not to tell him.

_Five, four, three, two_…

Trip held his breath. The pod flew smoothly across the cloaking field, and seconds later two energy bursts split the darkness. The vessel rocked under the force of the blows, one on each side of it; a few sparks sent Trip quickly turning off non vital systems, but the enhanced shielding held, and the shuttle continued on its approaching vector. Trip heaved a sigh of relief. Soon he'd be entering the atmosphere. Time to check the landing coordinates which Daniels had given him.

_Hold on Mal, here I come. _

It was night on the planet. They had chosen to have him land in darkness, to lessen the risk of visual detection. Not that – according to Daniels – there were any inhabited settlements near Malcolm's location: just an isolated house; but better be on the safe side.

Trip switched to manual and piloted the shuttle over a low mountain range, veering to the left. There was the field Daniels had told him about; and the wood in the distance. His landing vector was going to be a little steep, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Under his expert piloting, the shuttle began to lose altitude. It was two thirds down when, in the reddish moonlight, Trip spotted something half buried in the ground. He immediately recognised it, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He hoped Malcolm was in better shape than Shuttlepod Two.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

§ 12 §

Malcolm woke up abruptly with a distinct feeling of unease. His sleep was never too deep: a vocational bias. Still, something had brought him back from it, and he didn't know what. Lying immobile under the makeshift shelter he had built with branches and leaves, he fine tuned all his senses.

There was _silence_…

It hadn't taken him long to realise that this wood at night was not the peaceful environment he might have thought it to be. A variety of night fauna – birds and a whole range of little animals that burrowed into the ground – were up and about, and not all that noiseless.

But right now not a sound could be heard.

Fighting his desire to go back to sleep, Malcolm slowly pushed to a crouched position; then crawled out of his shelter and rose to his feet. He had found a spot, up the mountain, near an outcrop from which he could see Reeba's house. It gave him some comfort to watch the woman and child from there; it felt a bit as if he'd never left. Now he went to it and lowered himself on his haunches, hands lightly touching the ground; the sky in the distance was just beginning to lose its inky blackness: dawn was coming. Perhaps that was why the night fauna was silent.

Malcolm rubbed his eyes, trying to distinguish things, but even with the light of the setting moon it was still too dark. Yet that icy knot in his stomach would not melt; and his sixth sense had served him too well in the past to dismiss it.

Well, it wouldn't hurt to take a look around, he decided. Should it even be all for nothing, it would provide some distraction from this monotonous and depressing life.

As the crow flies he wasn't very distant from the house; but he was in no shape to hurry down a steep and tortuous mountain path, and it was a good forty-five minutes before he neared the edge of the wood at the back of the building. Taking care not to make any noise, Malcolm stepped to the last row of trees and leaned with his shoulder against one, trembling from the exertion and trying to slow his breathing.

He hadn't been this close to the house since the morning he had left, and as the back yard where he had spent so much time came in full view a pang of wistfulness assaulted him. Perhaps his decision had been too rash. Perhaps he could have… Clenching his fists, he reined in his thoughts before they could gallop dangerous distances. No, the safety of Reeba and Zen came first. He had done the right thing, and should keep away from them.

Shifting to Security Officer mode, he let his eyes wander around the place. All seemed normal and quiet. To be absolutely certain he ought to walk the house's perimeter, but that would expose him too much. It had taken him too long to get down here: it was already getting light, and he'd better be far away by sunrise.

He pushed off the tree but before he could turn, his eye caught movement. A window slowly cracked open and a well-known face, one belonging to someone who wasn't much taller than the sill, spied out. Malcolm frowned. What was Zen doing up and about at this hour? It wasn't like him. Had he heard something suspicious? He couldn't have heard _him_, he was too far away and had been stealthy.

The answer to his questions materialised a moment later, rounding the corner of the house and stepping into the backyard, and Malcolm's heart missed a beat. He blinked a couple of times and reached out to the tree for support: he could not make out the man's features but didn't need to; he'd recognise him in a million.

"Trip?" he choked out, afraid that he might be hallucinating.

The figure had something in his hand, which he was studying; probably a scanner. As he turned it in a circular motion around him, Malcolm saw the window slowly open some more, and was gripped with a sudden sense of foreboding.

"Trip!" he cried out with as much voice as he could find; it wasn't very much, but in the early-morning silence it carried and Trip lifted his head to it.

Without a thought to how much noise he'd make or if anyone might see him, Malcolm started to run, digging deep within him to find the energy. His heart was racing and so was his mind; but his voice couldn't keep up with them, failing to form the warning words he knew he should send out. And that was bad, because, phase pistol pointed forward, Trip was watching him, oblivious of the threat behind him. He looked frozen in place, seemingly unsure whether he should fire at the madman who was rushing his way.

"Get down!"

The shout finally ripped out of Malcolm's throat, and not a moment too soon. Without hesitation Trip dove to the side, just as a knife swished past him, clattering to the ground.

Malcolm't relief was short-lived, because Trip, of course, rolled on his back and aimed the pistol at the window. A bolt of energy snaked out of it, hitting its frame.

"No!"

It was all that Malcolm could scream. He stumbled forward for another few meters; he was just about at the shed when the last of his strength left him and he collapsed on his knees, with no more air in his lungs. All he could do was look on.

Trip had got his back safely against the house's wall, phase pistol at the ready over his shoulder, eyes darting between the window to his right, and Malcolm. "Malcolm?" he asked, as if he weren't sure it was really him.

Malcolm looked back speechlessly, suddenly aware of what a sight he must be: longer hair, a week-long beard, clothes that were not exactly Starfleet regulation; not to speak of his sickly appearance.

The back door cracked open, and Reeba peeked out, Zen clutching her midsection. Trip swivelled toward them.

"No!" Malcolm cried out hoarsely again, this time managing to add, "They're friends."

Trip, however, had promptly lowered his pistol at the sight of a woman and child; pushing off the wall, he cast a last glance at the two before jogging up to him.

Malcolm started to rise, but would have collapsed again in a heap if two strong hands had not grabbed him and helped him upright. He looked up into Trip's worried blue eyes, and hoped to God this wasn't a dream. But surely dreams didn't hold you tightly enough to leave bruises on your arms?

"You're comin' home," Trip finally mumbled, in a voice veiled with emotion. Then he pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

* * *

"So your ship has come."

The pale smile that graced Reeba's face softened her features, but there was a sadness there that tore at Malcolm's heart.

"Yes," he replied quietly. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Trip, almost as if to make sure he was still there. He was, sitting on the low wall, and quickly averted his eyes as if he'd been caught staring. Malcolm turned back to Reeba. "I never would have thought it at this point, but…"

She lowered her gaze. "I am happy," she said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. "You will be all right now."

Malcolm felt a lump form in his throat. "What about you, will you be all right?"

"Yes."

Again, the confident tone sounded strained. Malcolm studied her guarded features and let his eyes wander over her gentle face, remembering the first time he had seen her, when he had barely been conscious. He reached and cupped her cheek in one hand. "Thank you for what you have done for me," he said in a voice that came out deep with feeling. With a light finger he traced the intricate patterns on her forehead, as if to impress them in his mind. He felt like pulling her in an embrace, but was afraid that would make things worse. "I am sorry that bringing an injured alien home and saving his life has caused you to suffer," he added, and he was sure that she knew he wasn't referring only to the time the Elk had beaten her.

Reeba shrugged lightly, her green-blue eyes coming up to meet his. "I would do it again," she said, and this time her voice was sincere. "Life is the most precious thing one – even an alien – has got."

"You could come with us," Malcolm offered. "We could take you somewhere safe, where there are no Elk…"

Reeba bit her lip. "What would we do there? This is where we belong."

Her eyes shifted and refocused behind Malcolm's back, and he half turned to see Zen engaged in conversation with Trip. The boy had not taken long to make friends, this time. Perhaps it was the fact that language was no longer a barrier; but most likely it was Trip's wonderfully easy-going character. It was like a magnet.

When Malcolm turned again, Reeba had come very close and was looking expectantly into his eyes.

"Reeba," he murmured, shaking his head, "I'm not sure you want this…"

"I am," she whispered. Leaning forward, she awaited his embrace, tilting her face up. Malcolm put his arms around her and pulled her close, bending his head to meet her lips with his own. If this was the only way he could show her his gratitude, he would not refuse it. But if it was only gratitude, why was his heart racing?

There was a clearing of throat behind him, and Malcolm reluctantly broke the kiss. He lost himself in the blue-green eyes one moment longer; then turned to Trip.

"Sorry, but I think we'd better be on our way," Trip said a little awkwardly. "Day has already broken."

Malcolm pursed his lips and nodded. His eyes fell on Zen, who was standing on the low wall beside Trip, his face grim, and he went up to him. "There is something I forgot to teach you, about protecting people," he told him, searching his gaze. "Something important."

Zen frowned gloomily. "But there is no time now…"

"It's not a new move," Malcolm said, with a small smile. "But it's just as difficult, if not more." He tilted his head. "Sometimes, to protect someone, you must sacrifice yourself."

There was a pause.

"As you did, going away from us?"

He'd always thought the lad was bright. He shouldn't have doubted that Zen would understand why he had left them. Malcolm's smile grew fond. "Yes. But also as you can do for your mother, by not getting into trouble," he said, meaningfully. On impulse, he passed a hand through Zen's salt-and-pepper hair. "Forget about using the knife and those moves I showed you. Practise them but keep them to yourself. At least until you're big enough that the consequences of your actions will fall on you alone. Understood?"

Zen smirked. "Understood." His face tensed and he flung himself on Malcolm for a tight hug.

Malcolm closed his arms around him, no longer surprised at the emotion swelling within him. Being a father might not be such a bad thing, after all.

Pushing off him, Zen reluctantly reached into his pocket. "If you're going back to your ship I think you will need these," he muttered, stretching his hand out. In it were two small pips.

Malcolm looked at them. So his gift had been found and cherished. He reached out and closed Zen's hand around them. "You can keep them," he said in a voice deep with feeling. "I want you to have them."

This was harder than he had expected. Malcolm turned abruptly to Trip. "Let's go," he said tautly.

They walked away in silence.

It was the second time Malcolm was leaving, and though this time he was going back to his ship, back to the living, back to his place in life, it didn't feel any easier than when he had thought he'd go into a forest to die.

Trip kept casting him furtive glances, but he did not meet them, feeling numb.

They reached the forest edge, and as they left the sunny clearing and entered the wood the air suddenly went cool, making Malcolm shiver.

"You ok?" Trip finally asked, concern clear in his voice.

Before, in the back yard, Malcolm had received a couple of hypos, which had helped somewhat, but he sensed that Trip's question was not to enquire after his physical condition.

"Not quite," he murmured truthfully.

"Yeah, I understand," Trip breathed out.

Through the weariness and mixed emotions that were warring within him, Malcolm felt his friend's comforting presence beside him. Trip was walking closer than he would normally do, as if afraid he might collapse, and for once Malcolm didn't mind this invasion of personal space. Indeed, he welcomed the silent support.

He'd never know why – he had been determined to walk away like that first time, without a last glance – but at the last moment he stopped and turned. His breath caught. "Oh, hell…"

"What is it?" Trip asked tautly, turning too.

"The Elk… Something isn't right."

He made to walk back, but Trip caught him by an arm. "Wait, we can't be seen," he said with gentle firmness.

Malcolm swallowed hard. He shot a troubled glance to Trip before turning his attention back to the house. Three Elk were there. Reeba was discussing something with them. Suddenly one of them pushed her away and grabbed Zen roughly by the neck of his shirt, dragging him along. Reeba regained her balance and tried to stop him, her pleading voice sending another shiver, one that wasn't caused by cold, down Malcolm's spine. But she was pushed away again and fell to her knees.

Malcolm's breathing got ragged, and he took another step back, but Trip's hand closed around his arm again. "Malcolm…" he murmured.

"They're taking him away," Malcolm snapped, struggling to get free. "Can't you see that?" Reeba had told him, _One day they'll come and take him away to get trained in something, and then they'll give him a job, and I probably won't see him ever again_.

"We can't do anything about it," Trip said, turning him forcibly to face him and looking straight into his eyes with eyes that were deeply concerned and sympathetic. "We just can't."

"Yes, we can," Malcolm growled. "Give me your phase pistol."

He tried to reach for Trip's holster, but with a fast move his friend turned him around and grabbed him from behind, holding him locked in a restricting embrace.

"Let me go!" Malcolm snarled. He fought to free himself, but in his condition he was no match for Trip.

"Malcolm, we can't help them," Trip repeated painfully in his ear, and held him even more tightly, though it was clear Malcolm would not be able to break free. "What are you gonna do? Kill those three Elk and then what? More will come, and your friends will be punished," Trip went on tautly.

Malcolm felt all his certainties vanish. Suddenly there was no more fight in him, and it was all too much: he stopped struggling and clutched Trip's arms in despair, letting his friend hold him while they watched on helplessly as Zen was dragged away. The boy wasn't giving any resistance, and then it hit him: that's what he had just told him. Zen was being faithful to the teachings of his last 'lesson'. A mist clouded his sight, and everything blurred.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

§ 13 §

Trip shifted the throttle control and the shuttlepod responded obediently, speeding upwards towards the edge of the atmosphere. He had almost accomplished his mission; they were going back, both of them. But it wasn't the homecoming he had imagined it to be.

Swivelling in his chair a little, he studied the man who had chosen to sit in the passenger's seat as if the chair at navigation was foreign to him, and was now looking unblinkingly at the planet getting farther and farther away: he seemed very different from the confident Lieutenant who had boarded Shuttlepod Two more than three months before. Trip felt his heart shrink. He couldn't shake the memory of how frail and broken Malcolm had felt in his arms when he had restrained him from going back to that house; and now more than ever he was glad that the Captain had chosen him, and not T'Pol, for this mission. With all due respect for Vulcans, in certain circumstances a fellow Human was more apt to understand and give comfort.

Except that Malcolm hadn't spoken another word to him after those harrowing moments…

With a sigh, Trip turned back to the control panel and engaged the EM shielding. He certainly didn't need to worry about his friend seeing what he was doing: he appeared to be somewhere else. Soon the blue would fade and space would engulf them.

"Hold on, Malcolm," he said gently. "There is an automated defence system we need to go through." No answer came.

The darkness was there, in front of them, getting closer by the second. Trip felt his muscles tense in anticipation: this was the last obstacle. Punctually, flashes came zapping; the pod rocked, but the shielding held; and it was over.

Still no sound came from behind him. Like a child needing guidance, Malcolm seemed to have abandoned himself into Trip's hands. It was the light bip of the comm. system that broke the silence a few seconds later. Trip opened the channel.

"Enterprise to Shuttlepod One," Hoshi's voice crackled through.

"Tucker."

"Trip, everything ok?" There was veiled hope in Archer's voice.

"Mission accomplished, Captain," Trip replied tersely, wanting to keep this short. "We're coming home. Tucker out."

Engaging the automatic pilot, Trip turned to Malcolm, who was still looking out of the porthole. Nothing about him spoke of the spit-and-polish officer he had once been – hell, he still _was_, Trip corrected himself, wincing inwardly. The shipshape Lieutenant was still there, under that long and dirty hair; those baggy alien clothes that made him look so very thin; and that shaggy beard. He was sure of it. Malcolm _had_ managed to make it across that wood - Trip didn't know how, but somehow he had, and without help. Obviously something of the old, stubborn man had survived.

"Malcolm, I'm sorry..." The words tumbled out of Trip's heart, through his lips. He would have helped that woman and child even if they hadn't meant so much to his friend, had there been a way; but there just hadn't been one.

Malcolm turned wordlessly to him, and his hollow eyes were the hardest thing to bear.

"Are you mad at me for stoppin' you?" Trip forced out.

Malcolm blinked, as if coming out of a daze. "No," he murmured lifelessly. "You were right. There was nothing we could have done."

It was more than Trip had expected, and he heaved a breath, though he felt little relief. In spite of Malcolm's words, guilt tugged at his conscience.

There was another long silence.

Trip was about to turn back to the control panel, when Malcolm spoke again. "Didn't you see the planet de-cloak?" he asked in a dark voice. "The energy bolts that hit me?"

It took Trip a moment to realise what he was referring to. "The planet didn't de-cloak," he explained, wincing. "Your pod just… vanished when it crossed the cloaking field around it. We figured out that's what it was: a cloaking field; but we could not see through it and had no clue as to what was behind it. We didn't know about the planet."

Malcolm's face showed no emotion as he stared back unblinkingly. His eyes weren't accusing, but Trip felt uncomfortable nonetheless.

"We tried everythin' to pierce that field, believe me," Trip added soulfully. "In the end…" He lowered his gaze, unable to say the words while looking into his friend's. "Starfleet insisted that Enterprise continue on her mission, and you were declared M.I.A."

"I see," Malcolm breathed out, turning to the porthole again.

Trip grimaced. He'd rather face Lieutenant Reed's anger than this unresponsiveness. "The Capt'n didn't want to leave," he murmured. "You know him," he added, even as his conscience whispered 'look who's talking'.

Malcolm turned back to him once again, and a slight frown creased his brow. "Why now?"

Trip wondered for a moment if he was allowed to tell him about Daniels, but decided the man deserved an explanation. "We learned that you were alive, and got some help to see past that field."

Malcolm's frown deepened. "Who?"

"Daniels."

Leaning his head back, Malcolm closed his eyes and gave a tired and sarcastic-sounding huff. "The Armoury Officer saved by a steward…"

Trip shook his head silently, glad that his friend was not asking more, at least for the moment. He swivelled back to the piloting console. They were approaching Enterprise, in a few minutes they'd be home and safe. He disengaged the automatic pilot and opened a channel to the ship.

"Shuttlepod One to Enterprise. Just about ready to dock."

"Acknowledged," T'Pol's professional voice came back. "Extending the arm."

A few minutes later a small jolt told them they were being pulled inside the launchbay. Trip finally allowed his tense shoulders to relax. He turned to his friend, and suddenly more than a bit of trepidation was clear in the grey eyes. Malcolm's longer dark hair and beard made them stand out starkly.

"We're _home_, Malcolm," he said gently. "Nothin' to be afraid of..." He watched the man swallow.

"So much has happened... I feel so bloody brittle…" Malcolm's voice was deep with uncertainly. He looked down his front, at himself. "The Captain is expecting Lieutenant Reed back, and this isn't him."

Trip bit his lip. There might be some truth in that. "Maybe not _that_ Lieutenant Reed," he admitted, smiling as he added, "Only a better one. A stronger one."

"_Strong_?"

Coming abruptly up to him, Malcolm's eyes were troubled, almost anguished. Trip shrugged like saying 'of course', and watched them gradually lose their edge; till something dawned in them, and just a hint of the old self-confidence was back.

The pod was now safely in the bay. Trip raised his eyebrows. "Ready, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm's mouth twitched downwards in a stubborn grimace. With an effort he pushed to his feet.

They were both at the hatch. Trip grabbed the handle, pausing a moment to say, "You'll be ok," before opening it. He could see Archer and Phlox there waiting. They were alone. Trip was grateful for Jon's tactful gesture: this was hard enough for Malcolm without being paraded in front of the whole crew. He cast a last, quick sideways glance at his emaciated friend: Malcolm had straightened his shoulders, and it was then that he felt sure his friend, eventually, _would_ be ok.

As they started to move, a murmured 'thank you' floated his way.

* * *

The voices behind the privacy curtain were kept low. Pacing at a discreet distance, Archer sighed inwardly: as its name suggested, a privacy curtain was just for that – privacy; but Phlox's visit was taking too long. He was eager to know how Malcolm was.

Images kept replaying in his mind, like a broken movie. It had required an effort not to show his feelings when Reed had stepped out of the pod, some twenty minutes before. The wasted man before him had tried his best to carry himself in a way worthy of an officer, yet it had been so clearly a desperate act of willpower that Archer's heart had got very small, and his 'welcome back, Lieutenant' had sounded like a pantomime, like words out of a bad script, pronounced by a worse actor. His mind, actually, had been filled with other expressions, not quite as gentlemanly. Malcolm had replied with a formal 'thank you, Sir', letting nothing through. Who knows what he too would have uttered, had he not been restrained by the straightjacket of propriety.

Malcolm's eyes, actually, had been disturbingly telling: there had been something there that Archer had not seen before, something he could only define as resignation. It had made him shudder.

"Capt'n, would you mind?" Trip almost pleaded. He was slumped on a chair, looking exhausted. "You're making me…"

"Dizzy," Archer finished for him. "I know, I know." He reached the wall, turned, and walked back, stopping in front of his friend. "You got him back, talked to him," he said, keeping his voice low. "He looks so… Will he be all right?"

Trip passed a scrambling hand through his hair. "He's gonna need some time," he murmured. "Not so much to forget these three months as..." He rubbed his chin, wincing. "When we were leaving… something happened, Capt'n."

Archer frowned: it wasn't often that Trip sounded so reticent. He felt like ordering him to report, but curbed himself, giving the man time.

Trip sighed. "I don't know the whole story myself," he finally continued, with a quick glance towards the still drawn privacy curtain. "But there were people who took care of him down there, a woman and her child. He got close to them." Trip's blue eyes grew pained as he added, "The Elk came to take the boy away. We watched them from a distance, unable to do anythin' about it."

Archer scrunched his eyes shut; but a screeching sound, metal on metal, made him flash them open again. Trip was getting up from his chair, all tiredness seemingly gone, and Archer turned to see Phlox coming towards them. The smile on his lips wasn't his trademark open one. Behind him, near a biobed, Malcolm was pulling on a uniform – which some kind soul had thought of bringing to sickbay – and his scarred-over burns were, for a moment, in full view, as was the extent of his weightloss; a moment later he had put on the sleeves and pulled the zip up. Despite his unkempt hair and long beard, he looked more like himself in Starfleet blue, and Archer hoped he would also _feel_ more like himself. Granted, it was only a uniform; but for someone like Malcolm it meant – or had meant – a lot.

"When he crash-landed on that planet the Lieutenant suffered burns to his left shoulder, arm and side," Phlox began straight out as soon as Archer's attention returned to him. "Those have healed, apparently thanks to the care of an excellent doctor. There is some scar tissue, but I can remedy that." He pursed his lips. "As you will have noticed, Mr. Reed has lost some weight: his diet in the past three months has been inadequate. His blood is very low in some vitamins and especially in iron." Phlox raised his eyebrows. "That too can be remedied. I have already started him on supplements, and in a week's time he should already feel a lot stronger."

There was a pause, and Archer cast another glance at Malcolm, who was now leaning back against the biobed, hands gripping its edges, eyes to the ground.

"As for the rest," the doctor continued, "He seems a bit out of place. Of course he will need some time to readjust. And I suggest that he doesn't remain off duty for longer than strictly necessary: the sooner he begins to resume his former life, the sooner he will recover his self-assurance."

"It's your call, Doctor," Archer said.

"I will need to assess his psychological condition before I declare him fit even for light duty," Phlox explained. "But I'll begin tomorrow. He's gone through enough for now."

Archer nodded. "Thank you, Phlox."

His attention shifted back to Reed. As if on cue, Malcolm lifted his gaze and met his eyes, and Archer forced a smile as he walked up to him. "Phlox says you'll recover your strength pretty fast, Malcolm," he said encouragingly. "And that he can take care of your scars." _At least the visible ones_, he silently added.

"Yes, Sir."

There had been many times when Archer had felt ill at ease in this man's presence; often he had wondered if the Lieutenant tried his best to _make_ him uncomfortable. He was ill at ease even now, but he knew it had nothing to do with Malcolm this time.

"We… need to talk about many things," he said hoarsely. "Whenever you are ready, my door is open, as always."

The grey eyes bore into him.

"Captain…" Malcolm murmured tiredly. He looked to be gathering his thoughts. "I know you would have tried everything to find me," he finally continued. "Just as I was always fully aware of the fact that you could not look for me indefinitely. As for what happened to me during these three months…" He dropped his eyes to the ground again. "If you don't mind, Sir, I would prefer to write a report."

Nothing had changed; still no chance ever to get the man to open up to him, no chance to get an inch closer to him than the distance set between them by formality. Only Trip had succeeded. Archer allowed himself a grimace because it went unseen.

"Of course, no problem; take your time," he said, suppressing a sigh.

There was a beat of silence.

"My parents," Malcolm eventually said with restrained emotion. "Do they know?"

Archer cringed at the memory of the last time he had spoken to Stuart Reed. "I didn't feel comfortable telling them of your rescue before I actually had you safely back." Something occurred to him. "Would you like me to contact them, to… soften the blow, so to speak, or…"

Malcolm swallowed, regaining control. "I'll take care of it, Sir."

Letting his eyes travel over his Armoury Officer's face, glad, despite what he saw on it, to have him back, Archer reached to squeeze his arm gently and said, "Get some rest, Lieutenant. Trip will walk you to your quarters." He smiled. "Nothing has been touched, by the way." _Except for a couple of beer bottles_, he silently tagged.

Surprise briefly appeared on Malcolm's face. Then he nodded and headed for the doors, where Trip was waiting.

As Archer watched them leave together, he heaved a deep breath. Things were not back to normal yet, but he had his full complement again, he hadn't lost anyone. And with time, and the love and care of his family and friends, Malcolm's scars, hopefully all of them, would fade.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

§ 14 §

"I..."

Whatever excuse Malcolm had planned to offer him for showing up at his door at three am stuck in the man's throat. Raising bleary eyes on him, Trip stopped holding up the wall and waved him in, hiding a huge yawn behind a hand. Malcolm's gaze only grew even more shocked.

"Ah... no... Hell, I'm so sorry," he stuttered as if realising only then the full extent of his sin.

He started pulling back but Trip reached out of the door and grabbed him by the front of his sweatshirt. "Wait, 't's ok," he drawled out, on the coda of his yawn.

Malcolm flinched. "It's not ok. This can wait," he murmured. "Trip, look… Forgive me, and go back to sleep."

He tried to free himself but Trip tightened his grip and pulled gently, and his once tough – if not hefty – friend came stumbling forward.

As he helped Malcolm regain his balance with one hand, with the other Trip rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Come on," he said flatly but not unkindly, "I could forgive you; but after seein' ya out there I wouldn't be able go back to sleep. So you might as well come in."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and shuffled back towards his bed, losing his fight against another yawn. He wasn't surprised Malcolm couldn't sleep; he, on the other hand, had been lost to the world from the moment he had touched his pillow, and if the door bell hadn't woken him up he would have easily continued sleeping right through the night without as much as shifting once: wonders of the aftermath of tense away missions...

"I talked to Daniels."

The soft words cleared the last of the cobwebs from Trip's brain. He hadn't expected _that_. He turned to Malcolm, a frown on his brow. "The Capt'n told me he'd leave right after remov..." Suddenly remembering Malcolm was not supposed to know about the EM shielding, he cut himself off. "I thought he was gone," he concluded.

"Everyone thought he'd left, from what I understood; even Daniels's superiors. Whoever they are," Malcolm added as an afterthought. He had stopped just inside the door, as if still undecided whether he should stay or not. "The man showed up at my quarters not an hour ago."

Trip put his hands on his sides. "What the hell did he want?"

Daniels was a bit of a strange character, as far as he was concerned. He hadn't decided yet whether he liked and trusted the guy or not. Mind you, it couldn't be argued that he had saved their mission that time with the Paraagan incident; and now he had saved Malcolm's life.

"He came to… _ease my mind_, as he put it." Malcolm took a tentative step forward. "He wanted to tell me about Reeba and Zen, what their lives will be like."

Trip tensed with concern; but there was no anguish on the recently shaved face of his friend, only lines of fatigue.

"And?"

An unexpected if fleeting smile curved Malcolm's mouth. "Reeba will have another child, a daughter. Girls are not taken away from their mothers, and they will live together till..." Catching himself, he concluded, "For a long time."

Trip wondered not for the first time just how close his friend had got to that woman: after all, it _was_ a kiss he had witnessed between them on that planet. Movement made him refocus on the present: Malcolm was finally coming forward to join him.

"What about the boy?" he enquired hesitantly, feeling that tight knot threatening to reform.

Malcolm's brow creased. "Reeba won't see him for many years." His voice was veiled; but he squared his shoulders and something flickered in his gaze as he added with a touch of pride, "He will become an expert in defence systems."

Trip chuckled, relief finally spreading inside him. "It figures. After spending three months with ya..."

"Daniels told me that Zen will actually be instrumental in changing the fate of his people," Malcom continued, ignoring Trip's gibe. "He will get a top job looking after the planet's defences, and that will place him in a position to sabotage and put out of commission Elkan'Tfuria's cloaking field and automated energy bolts. Suddenly out of its isolation, the planet will know a period of social strife. Daniels didn't go into much detail, but apparently Zen is one of the persons that will ultimately determine the decline of the Elk's supremacy."

Trip dropped to sit on his bed and gestured his friend to do the same on the desk chair. "So Reeba and her son will eventually get reunited?"

"Yes, eventually..."

"Well, that's good to know."

The desperate man who had fought in his arms just a few hours ago seemed gone, and also the one who had sat listlessly in the shuttlepod. Studying the changes that, now that he was fully awake, he could notice in Malcolm, Trip thought that what was also good to know was that Daniels had been thoughtful enough to give his friend some peace of mind; that humankind, centuries ahead, would still be a compassionate race.

"Are ya supposed to share all this with me?" he asked with a frown, suddenly wondering. He doubted Daniels would receive a medal for revealing such future events to them. The man felt immediately more sympathetic.

A blush crept up Malcolm's neck, and he lowered his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't have," he mumbled. "I hadn't thought about that…" He lifted his gaze. "Just as I hadn't thought about what time it is… I was – _am _–such an idiot."

Malcolm's eyes tried to shift away again, but Trip captured them. "I'm glad you came by," he said with feeling. "Knowin' that woman and her boy will be alright makes it a lot easier to accept the fact that I dragged you away, without attempting anythin' to help them. I was feelin' pretty guilty about it."

"We've been through that already: there was nothing we could have done. And you had your mission to accomplish," Malcolm said tautly. Scrunching his eyes shut, he added, "Please… let's not talk about it any more."

He suddenly looked brittle again, and Trip winced. "Sorry." He watched Malcolm sag in the chair, hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed. Hollow-period. "You ok?" he asked softly.

"Yes… No…" Malcolm shook his head, eyes carefully averted. "I don't know."

_Well_, _well_. Trip stuck his tongue in his cheek, unsure if he should pry into something this personal. It didn't take him long to decide: Malcolm clearly needed to talk to someone, that's why he had come to him. And if he was honest with himself, he was a little curious.

He heaved a deep breath and went on quietly, "Did you fall in love with her?"

Malcolm's lack of reaction told him that the question hadn't been totally unexpected.

"Did I?" he finally breathed out, a huff of a doubt that hung in the air. "I don't really know. The line between gratitude and love can be very fine." His voice dropped to a dark octave. "And when one is miserable and desperate enough one is likely to mistake the need to get comfort for love."

Trip's heart clenched. They had left him behind. An alien woman had risked everything to help him, but his own people hadn't; not Starfleet. Not _them_. An alien woman had taken a jump in the dark, helping someone she knew nothing about, but they had not: they, his closest friends, had not taken the jump into that dark cloaking field; they had safely followed Starfleet orders to keep out of it. No matter how logical, it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

"She took me in and took care of me when I was too sick to think straight," Malcolm went on quietly. "She convinced a doctor to lie to the Elk, to save my life."

"I am grateful for that," Trip commented; but Malcolm didn't seem to hear. "When I finally realised Enterprise was not going to come for me," he went on, "I also realised that at least I had something to fall back on: a family; a place I could call home."

A family? A home? Malcolm? Trip felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Was this the same man who never talked about his own family? Hell, who hadn't even told his parents what his job on board Enterprise was?

Malcolm's grey eyes darted to him and, as if reading his thoughts, he gave a self-conscious shrug. "Zen, more than Reeba, was responsible for that. I confess: I ended up feeling something close to… fatherly instincts for that boy."

"Yeah, the little guy was ok."

Trip could see how his friend could have gotten close to him, remembering the short conversation he'd had with the boy. He had a feeling Zen was the kind of intense and pensive child Malcolm himself must have been.

"It was at the end of a difficult day, when we were both quite miserable," Malcolm went on. "Reeba kissed me and… well, I felt… something."

It had been a difficult admission and Trip was surprised to see the grey eyes turn not to the floor but to him instead, intense, as if seeking answers on his face.

"I wasn't sure what it was and was afraid to hurt her." Malcolm's mouth tightened. "But, actually, there was no way I could _avoid_ hurting her."

"What do you mean?"

"I would hurt her if I left but also if I stayed, because the longer I stayed, the higher the risk I would expose her and Zen to danger; so I went away, into the wood." Malcolm let out a mirthless huff. "I was bloody well convinced that I would die there."

"Well," Trip said softly, "If that isn't love..."

Malcolm blinked.

There was a long silence. Trip leaned back against the headboard, giving his friend a little time. But there was one last doubt that nagged him, one last question he just had to ask. He cleared his throat.

"Uhm… that daughter Reeba will have..." he finally murmured, an impish smile playing across his face. His friend grey eyes came up to him, and a second later the spark of realisation flashed through them.

"No human DNA," Malcolm said deadpan. "And I didn't put my fingers in any boxes of pebbles," he added pointedly, narrowing his gaze in a dangerous look.

Trip groaned, rolling his eyes. "All right, I deserved that," he chuckled.

Shaking his head, Malcolm pushed to his feet. "I'd better try and catch some sleep," he muttered. "Phlox still has to run some tests; I think he wants to make sure that I can go back to work without falling apart the first time a critical situation arises."

Trip got up too. "You'll do just fine, don't worry." He felt certain that his friend would, but he'd be there to help him. "Listen," he added seriously as he walked Malcolm to the door. "Any time you need to talk… it doesn't matter if it's the middle of the night…"

A small grin appeared on Malcolm's lips while he averted his eyes in that way of his. "I'll try _not_ to make it in the middle of the night. Or at least I'll bring some beer to earn your forgiveness."

"Ah, actually…" Trip grimaced, scratching his head. "The Capt'n and I owe you two bottles," he said innocently.

"You do?" Malcolm, who had stepped out into the corridor, turned to study him, head tilted to one side.

"Well, we…" Trip bit his lip. "Ah, look, I'll tell you some other time." But he could see from Malcolm's expression that the man had pretty well guessed. Trip shrugged. "We missed you." He watched the thin man in front of him swallow hard.

"I believe… we lived an illusion down there, the three of us," Malcolm breathed out, emotion coating his voice once again. "The illusion to have a father, a husband, a home… because I had lost my home, this home, and had to fill that painful void." He took in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "But now the illusion is gone, we must all face reality once more. And now that I know Reeba and Zen will be all right, it feels… good."

The self-assured grey eyes Trip had known so well locked on to him. All was going to be fine. Not Reed fine, real fine. Trip smiled one of his sunniest smiles.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

THE END


End file.
